LIAM
There was a time when I told my mom everything. I’d burst through the door after school, innocent and eager, spilling my day to her like it was the best story ever told. Somewhere along the way, that part of me eroded, the openness melting away like ice on a summer sidewalk.
Now, I keep my thoughts bottled up, everything tucked behind a wall so high even I can’t climb it.
I became this way because of him.
My father bled out in front of me, his usually unshakable form crumpling to the ground, choking on his own blood. It’s a memory etched into my skull, sharper than any blade. He wasn’t a good man. Heavy-handed, drunk more often than not, and brutal when he lashed out. But seeing him broken like that—it did something to me.
Made me realize how easily someone could go from
