How He Broke

Safe In Your Arms (Tate's POV)

"You're addicted to her!" My mother screamed at me. "You're addicted to a girl that could leave you any second!"

I refused to listen. I couldn't. She was wrong. I was in love with her. I wasn't addicted to her.

"What would you do if she, died Tate?" My mother yelled. "What would you do if she left you for someone else? Someone better?!"

I clenched my fists, taking her verbal abuse at the dinner table.

"You'll move on to the next girl that gives you that same feeling! You'll go on an anger driven rampage to get all those feelings out! You'll get yourself killed if you aren't careful, Tate!"

I was gripping my steak knife in my hand, taking it the best I could.

"And once you're dead you'll wander this earth searching for someone that'll make you feel just as good as she did! You'll probably drag her down with you, making you both suffer an bitter end all because you're a selfish and greedy boy!"

"Shut up!" I finally snapped as I slammed my steak knife down through the plate, breaking it in half as the blade pierced the wood beneath it. "I'm tired of you getting on my ass all the time just because you're a drunk woman whose dating a man that's not only cheating on his wife, but abandoning his children to be with you!" I screamed, "You have no right to put your bullshit problems on me!"

My mother sat stunned by my words, Larry at the other end of the table was also in shock.

"Now, Tate... that no way to talk to your mothe-" Larry began to speak.

I ripped the knife out of the table, throwing it at him. It barely missed him, only nicking the side of his ear before finding its place stuck in the wall.

"That's it!" My mother yelled, standing from her seat. "Tate! Go to your room this instant!" She screamed.

I practically flipped the table as I pushed myself away from it, knocking plates off in the process.

I stood, making my way towards the stairs.

"Don't forget to push in your chair!" My mother snarled.

I walked back, picking the chair up and throwing it across the table at the wall, causing it to break before I ran up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind me.

My mother's sobs could be heard from downstairs, but I was too angry to care.

My blood was boiling, steaming out my ears as I paced back and forth across my room.

I was fuming. I wanted to break more things, relieve some of this new found rage.

I started throwing picture frames, the glass shattering upon impact against the floor.

I threw my chair across the room before knocking every single thing that sat on my desk off and onto the ground.

I dropped to my knees, picking pictures up out from the broken glass before I started shredding them, tears streaming down my face.

I only stopped when I noticed the picture I had shredded in hand was the only one I truly cared about.

It was a picture of Sage and I on Valentine's day last month.

Sage said she didn't want to celebrate in a stereotypical way, so instead of doing anything super fancy and over the top, we stayed in for the night with her mom.

We were sitting on the couch, Sages legs draped over my lap with her head resting on my shoulder, face buried in the crook of my neck. She was wearing my brown and black striped sweater over a pair of my black boxers that I had left here one day when I changed at her house.