A/N: First of all, I'm really glad I got this out of my head. Seriously, I couldn't do anything without thinking about this. Secondly, I published the first story on my account! I'm sorry if it's bad, but it is the first story. Thirdly, I'd like to thank syrus07, because she encouraged me the post this! Love you, bestie~! Lastly I do not own these characters, and never will...
"No! I will not go see that stupid chick-flick with you!" I yelled angrily at my father, Arthur. He was trying to get me to go to the movie with him, and see some girly film. That was not going to happen.
"Bloody Hell! It isn't a 'chick-flick'! It's a romantic comedy!"
"Same difference." I retorted with a smirk. His expression turned sad. "I... just wanted to have a fun night with my son..." his expression turned again, angrier. "But, he doesn't care about me does he? No! He doesn't respect me! Why Alfred? We fight over everything! You never did this to your mother!"
He stood there panting as I watched him dumbly. We both had tears streaming down our faces. I was shocked that he had brought up my mother. She had died in a car crash 2 years ago, and he hadn't mentioned her since. He had put away every picture of her and locked up the master bedroom. My father now slept in the guest room, or on the couch if we had company. I heard him whisper something.
"Um, what?" I asked, confused. "Go and make yourself food and stay away from my room. I don't want to see or here you for the rest of the night. Obviously, you don't love me."
I started sobbing as I watched him retreat up the stairs. I wanted to call out to him, say he was wrong, but I couldn't through my sobs. When I finally heard the door slam. I said in a hoarse voice "B-but I do love you!" Nobody was around to hear, though. I went to the kitchen and dried my tears on a paper towel. I took a glance around me. Through the doorframe I could see the living room, where the fight took place. Then I heard a noise at the top of the stairs.
"D-dad?" I said, nervously. "I would have told you to say that your sorry, but you never are." With that, he walked away again. He was right, even more so than he thought. 'How much of my life is a lie?' I asked myself. I realized that the knife drawer was right in front of me. I opened it slowly, and some calm part of my mind informed me that I was shaking. I had started cutting after my mom's death, and stopped only a couple of months ago. Picking up the sharpest knife I could find, I pressed it against the skin of my wrist, slowly adding pressure until blood came out. I sighed at the familiar feeling. "Much better."