The boy.

The boy was tall and lanky, with a mess of brown hair that he hated brushing. He stood, leaning against the door frame of his room, with his music blaring, drowning out the rest of the world. Green eyes squeezed shut, he nods his head along with the beat. A battered skateboard sits propped against his bed, the underside graffitied with permanent marker.
A voice calls out to him, demanding attention, and ripping him from his reverie. His face emotionless just a moment before contorts suddenly with anger as he slams his door with force, and falls onto his bed with a sigh. He still hadn't recovered from the fight with his mother the night before. They had been arguing, again, and it had started off just like any other fight.
That was until she hit him.
She'd never hit him before.
He rubbed his cheek, wincing at the stab of pain that shot through his face. Pushing off the bed, he walked slowly over to the mirror and glanced at his reflection.
It was his face, that, he recognised, but his cheek was an unfamiliar shade of purple. He cringed at the memory of the previous night, and was taken aback by how vulnerable his face became in that moment.
He looked at his reflection, his eyes staring back at him, as he searched for answers but found nothing.