18| Profession

“What is it I’m hearing about you skipping school Willow!?” An angry voice booms through my ears before the owner busts through the doors of my room.

I could remember the taste of bitterness and the dreary feeling of bile lurking in the corners of my throat. My skin tingles when I remember the chill surging in my bones, the feeling of my skin burning. My orange hair fell in my line of vision as I barely kept my eyes open to look at my enraged father.

I was not a child. I was a high school senior. I was 17. I knew what I was doing.

I’m cold. I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him I was cold, and my blood was boiling. I wanted to let him know that my head was pounding and that I had a good reason for skipping school.

“Why do you always have to be so fucking difficult? Do you know how much it costs to put a roof on your head and educate you? Why are you so fucking ungrateful?” He was yelling.

It made my head pound. It made me want to go crazy. It was tiring and frustrating. I wouldn't say