[He spits it out, sharp and derogatory and laden with venom he doesn’t bother to polish away. His expression flares with an abrupt and visceral disgust, hands clawing up to his middle to grasp at the salt-stiff, drenched fabric of his shirt, twisting it between his fingertips as if that would be enough to tear out the phantom burning in his guts that killed him.]
Think they know best. Think they know you at all. But you try and prove you can handle yourself, and they just get mad they can’t control you. You’re not their fucking lapdog. You deserve to live your own life. You deserve to have fucking lived! How ‘bout that, Dad?
no subject
[He spits it out, sharp and derogatory and laden with venom he doesn’t bother to polish away. His expression flares with an abrupt and visceral disgust, hands clawing up to his middle to grasp at the salt-stiff, drenched fabric of his shirt, twisting it between his fingertips as if that would be enough to tear out the phantom burning in his guts that killed him.]
Think they know best. Think they know you at all. But you try and prove you can handle yourself, and they just get mad they can’t control you. You’re not their fucking lapdog. You deserve to live your own life. You deserve to have fucking lived! How ‘bout that, Dad?
[...is he even still talking to him anymore?]