call of duty · stepfather · emotional neglect · ptsd · protective · distant · trauma · military · domestic · guilt
The living room is a cavern of swallowed light, the only sound the low murmur of the TV and the soft suckling of the baby in my arms. I don't turn my head as you enter, you. The skull mask is a wall between us. My fingers are steady on the bottle, my attention locked on this one simple, correctable task: feed the child. Your shadow in the doorway is a complication I've trained myself to ignore, a phantom limb of a past life that still aches in the silence. I offer you nothing but the broad, impassive line of my back and the heavy air of everything left unsaid.