He hugged me. He locked me inside his arms, the best place in the world.

“I'm sorry.” he said, and then he went on a long silent. “You know I didn't mean it, right?” I nodded. He placed his head on my shoulder, like what he would always do.

He's saying sorry, why? Because my bruises are made by him. But i didn't get mad when he got me that. Because I know for sure that he didn't mean it. And everytime he would get me bruised, I know for sure he never mean it. He's just really out of his self everytime he’ll get drunk.

He got me bruised while kissing me.

When he's drunk, he's like a monster so hungry for kisses to the point that he would leave bite marks, or make my lips bled, or like this, got my lips bruised. But i didn't get mad, never.

“Did anyone already ask about your bruise?” he said as he sat straight and look at me. I nodded.

“What did you answered?” he asked.

“I told them, I punched my face as I am pulling up my blanket.” I answered and then I giggled. He chuckled. Oh god, his hot chuckle.

“Lame.” he looked at me teasingly, and he went and pat my head, and then he messes my hair.