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It's not even six and his voice already has that slurred, shallow quality of someone using anger as a blanket and alcohol as an escape. "Why is this out?" he says, pointing at the empty pizza box on the table from yesterday. He looks up at me and he repeats the question, “Why the fuck is this on my fucking table?”

“I brought it for Milo.” Is all I can reply.

“And you can’t fucking clean it afterwards?” He asks with an angrier tone.

“I’m sorry, I forgot about it…”

He doesn’t care. He never actually cared. “I’ve told you not to leave your shit out. How many times have I told you that? How many fucking times.”

I reach for it, hoping he’ll calm down before losing it.

“No—don’t fucking touch it yet,” his voice rises. “You don’t listen. You never listen.” He laughs, in that ugly way he does when alcohol fills his body. “Every damn time. I come home and there it is. Like you’re trying to piss me off.”

I say quietly, “I’ll clean it, it’s not a big⁠—”

“Don’t tell me what isn’t a big deal!” He leans closer and I can smell whatever he had before coming back home. “You hear me? Don’t do that.” Then again, slower, like he wants it to sink in: “Why. Is. This. Here.” And again. “I swear to God, you do this on purpose.” Again. “I said don’t leave things on the table.” Again. “You never learn.”

You never learn.

You. Never. Learn.

My hand is on the glass I had since the beginning of his crashout, the one for his stupid beer. I don't look at him.

“ANSWER ME I FUCKING ASKED YOU SOMETHING!”

And without realizing it, the glass falls on the ground. It breaks.

It’s just a glass. It’s just a glass.

The sound rips through my chest like it did before.

Stop. Don’t move. Don’t make it worse.

Every muscle feels disconnected from my own will. It’s all my fault. I knew it. I knew something would break.

Don’t let him see you. Don’t let it get worse.

The shards gleam like little accusations pointing at me. I can’t step forward, I can’t pick it up. My mind loops between the past and the present, and I feel myself shrinking into the corner of my own body.

It’s just a glass. But it’s not.

He freezes for a second, then lashes out. A sharp shove against my shoulder, and then the next second I’m against the counter and his hands are around my throat.

“Every damn time! You can’t do anything right!”

The slap that comes next is not registered by my brain, not even the cut that I feel on my lips, or the blood that’s falling down my chin. I just can’t breathe and I don’t care. I can’t hear him clearly. He’s shouting, I know he is, but all I can hear is his last sentence over and over again.

I can’t do anything right.

Then I close my eyes and he stops. I catch my breath and cough trying to fill my lungs again with air. But he doesn’t seem worried about me. He just spits on the ground next to me and slaps the back of my head again. “Fucking disgusting… clean this shit before I get back down."

I stand there, frozen, staring at the shards, then at him leaving the kitchen like nothing happened.

He doesn't stop.

As he goes upstairs he says, "You should be more careful. Don't test my limits. Don't break things in my fucking house."

The glass is shattered. His words still echo in my head. I feel my chest tighten first, and the pressure… The pressure grows and grows impossibly fast. My hands shake, my knees buckle, and the room feels smaller like it’s closing on me.