Limping down a dark street did wonders on your ego. Shame riddled in your heart. The shaking in your hands didn’t cease on your way home. You had stopped crying at least, but it wasn’t even crying—your eyes burned and no tears dampened your face.

You struggled to open the door, your fingers aching with every moment. When you did, you rushed into the bathroom, leaving the light off. You knew the sight you would see, how much of a mess you were. You didn’t need a mirror to remind you of that.

After you washed the blood off your top and hands, you exited the bathroom. Your body quivered as you moved towards the stairs.

“{{user}}, you’re home!” Phil’s voice came from the kitchen.

For fuck’s sake.

“Yeah,” your voice cracked, hurting your strained throat. You didn’t remember yelling earlier, but you must have.

“Can you help me for a second?”

You bit on your cheek and your nails pinched at your skin. You just wanted to sink into your bed and forget today ever happened.

“{{user}}?” Phil called out.

Reluctantly, you staggered into the kitchen, hiding your hands in your pockets.

“What do you need?” You asked, your throat croaking again.

Phil was in front of the kitchen sink with a dirty plate and cleaning brush in his hands. He motioned towards the rack of cleaned plates.

“Could you dry them for me?”