Tattooed Hearts

Pillow Talk & Soccer Matches

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I throw away another bloody tissue. God, how many does it take to clean a cut?

I pull another one from the box, pressing it firmly against the sliced skin on my upper arm, clenching my teeth from the sharp stinging. I take my tweezers and pull out another small share of glass that wedged it's way into my arm, throwing it into the trash with other remains of a beer bottle.

I pull out the first aid pox I have stuffed underneath my sink for times like this. I unlock it, grabbing the gauze and bandaging the deep slice. I tear it off with my teeth, securing it with tape before taking my pile of tissues and dumping them into the trash as well.

Then I look up into the mirror at myself. The skin around my left eye has turned a dark grey color, the inner most edges a purplish tint. I gently press a finger to it, wincing at the pain.

I shove the medical supplies back under the sink and shut my bathroom light off. I slowly climb the stairs from my room up to the living room, nothing but my two hands to defend myself if my dad decides to attack again.

He was mad because I spent money on a dress, rather than buying him beer, or whatever other shit he thinks he needs.

I take a deep breath and push the basement door open, exiting onto the main floor, where my dad lays passed out on the couch. I look at him and disgust washes over me, and I notice red bite marks all along his neck. I shake my head, angrily stomping over to the kitchen and taking an ice pack from the freezer, retreating back to my room before he has the chance to wake up even more drunk and infuriated.