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Glass. Broken glass. Digging into his skin with every clench of his fist. Blood dripping down onto the floor, staining his hands, wet and sticky. He breathed in, breathed out.
His head pulsed with an ache to rival a dying star, sinuses stinging, blood leaking from his nose and tears from his eyes. He looked up, into the ceiling light.
“It’s never going to get better.”
Silence. His father was silent.
Harry pulled himself up, onto his feet. Looking past the blur in his vision, the shitshow in front of him became apparent.
Skin. Broken bones. Clenched fists slowly weakening. Blood dripping down onto the floor, staining his feet, wet and sticky. He breathed in, breathed out.
“It’s never going to get better. That’s what you made me believe.”
He hobbled over, wood creaking beneath his feet. Norman’s eyes opened, ever so slightly, a pathetic wheeze of a breath audible in the silence.
“It’s never going to get better.”
Crunch.
He pulled his fist away from his dad’s face, clenching his jaw. Shit. That hurt.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
“Maybe it won’t for you,” he breathed, swallowing down the nausea at the bloody mess below him. “But me?”
Norman’s chest went still. He grinned.
“Now on, it’s gonna get a whole lot better for me.”