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And that was unacceptable.
"I miss you bud," he whispered, though only the echo of the crypt answered him back.
He was used to it. It had been the same for years now. Yet somehow… Somehow this year was worse.
"I wish you were here. I wish you were still alive. Then…" he choked on his words, his throat clogging with emotion.
A tear made its way down his cheek. The first in too long.
Michele never cried.
Yet this time… This time he'd known it was about to get worse—perhaps the worst it had ever been.
"Then I would be different too. I could…" he trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. To utter it out loud was to turn it into reality. It was admitting to himself that he still had…desires—that he still had dreams. And Michele still lived under the assumption that he was entirely in control—that he was fine as he was, locked away from the world. Living inspiteof the world.
"I did the unthinkable, bud," Michele whispered, his hand tightening over the bottle of bourbon. Taking another sip of alcohol, he forced himself to speak—to confess his greatest faults. His son deserved to know what a piece of shit his father was.
"I killed my own child," he said the words out loud for the first time. "Or, I should say, I killedanotherchild." A wry smile pulled at his lips, though his eyes were unsmiling.
It was a few more copious swigs of alcohol later that he could finally release the words from his mouth—release them from his mind.
"I couldn't let that baby be born, bud," he shook his head. "I couldn't do it," he whispered. "Not when it would mean the end of everything."
Another sip and he relished the burn. After all, pain was what he deserved.
"I killed him and never looked back. And the worst thing? I would do it again."
He didn't share the fact that it killed his own soul to do so. That his pet was not the only one plagued by nightmares. When his pet had told him about her nightmares it had been like stabbing his heart with a poisoned dagger, for it had targeted his insecurities and his pain.
For as long as he lived, he would hold that one regret alive in his memory.
But to imagine otherwise…
To think of her giving birth, of his child out in the world—aweaknessout in the world? That was out of the question.
Countless times already he'd dreamed about the what-ifs—of that alternate reality in which she did continue with her pregnancy. In which she did give birth to his child. In which they…were a family.
He hurt even more at picturing that for he knew if he opened his heart, he would end up back in the past again—back to bleeding instead of being.
And so he'd closed it.
Maybe his pet was appealing to him, in an odd way that nothing else was. But she'd never claim his feelings. She'd never claim his control and the purpose that ruled his very being.
Yet he also recognized the weakness in him—the fact that shecouldbecome more if he allowed her. And if there was a child in the equation, it would be even worse—infinitely worse.
He saw that alternative, just as he saw the end result.
His enemies would catch up with him—again. And if they ever laid a hand on his family… Michele didn't think he could withstand that type of pain.
His heart had died with his son, though his body had kept on living.
But if he let himself feel… If he let himself create a family withhis Zia,and that was taken away from him, he knew his body wouldn't survive either.
This time, he would die for good.
And he couldn't allow that. Not while his promise to his son was still foremost in his mind. Not when his guilt was suffocating him more and more.
"I know you must be disappointed in me, bud," he pursed his lips, his eyes fixated on the darkness of the crypt. "But I promised you justice. Iwillgive you justice. And this is the only way I can do it."
