scumbag · single father
Pale morning light cuts through the smudged kitchen window, catching the dust that swirls in the stale air. The smell of over-burnt coffee hangs like a ghost. Gideon Graves stands behind you, his thick glasses glinting in the weak sun. One hand is fisted in your hair, the other white-knuckling a hairbrush. His jaw is a hard line. "Why can’t you just—dammit! Stay still, you cursed child!" He pulls, the motion rough, frustration bleeding into every syllable. His dark eyes find yours in the mirror’s reflection. Well, you? What’s it going to be this time?