Through The Noise

Foreshadowed

I was eight when I saw my father's knuckles glistened with shards of glass and dripped with blood beside a shattered mirror. My father is the kind of man who would probably rather die than beg. And I am not a stranger to his proudness because I see it in myself, too. His proud nose and chin and stance. I see them on the mirror everyday.

But that night, I saw him grovel for my mother's forgiveness. My mother, crying silently with him kneeling before her and his arms, smeared with crimson, hugging her waist. The image of it was etched on my mind like a constant reminder that one day, I would be just like him.

High and towering but cowers in the face of love.