Locked Out at 2:13 AM by Absalom Abalone
“I hate you!” I wrestled the bottle from his hands and threw it to the floor. The glass shattered and its shards were scattered across the small room. I began to cry. I’d cried in front of him before, but I never cried like this. The way I felt, the act I had just committed: this was something I could only—and before now did only—fantasize about. Like a dream come true in the realest sense. When he had opened the door, his eyes were half-closed and bleary. Now they were blinking, slowly widening into what was likely surprise and also what I hoped was fear. His mouth grew open bit by bit and I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. I felt wrath flood into my blood like white-hot fire. My jaw was trembling. My shoulders heaved with every breath as he stood there frozen, stick-still. The fluorescent kitchen lights shone down on us like spotlights. Tiny slivers of sharp glass gleamed on top of the cold, white floor tile. “I hate you! You don’t care about me at all! I knew it!”
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