Dane

His father left, taking Violet with him, and he was sitting there, still naked. And he didn't even care. He sat there… he didn't know how long. By the time he blinked and forced himself to move, he was achingly cold, and the room was pitch black.

​​

He stumbled to the bathroom and showered for over an hour desperate to rid his head of all the images—both the beautiful, now tainted memories with Lila, and the flashes of what he remembered from that afternoon.

He'd turned the water as hot as it would go, filling the bathroom with heavy steam, and then he'd stepped under the stream, gritting his teeth against the scream in his skin. And then he'd scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed every inch of himself.

It hadn't helped. He couldn't get clean.

When he finally walked out the cloud of steam in the bathroom, naked and still shaking, he'd suddenly felt it, felt exposed, even though there was no one in his apartment. He found his robe and wrapped it around him. Realized his hands were trembling.

Where was that cold numbness his father had trained into his bones? He wanted the cold. He wanted the numbness. He wanted to be the robot, because then at least this wouldn't touch him. But for the first time, he sought it—wanted it, welcomed it. And for the first time, it didn't come.

He didn't bother with the lights, just dropped into the chair his father had left there.

…She looked a little like Lila, but her hips felt wrong, her waist was shorter, and her cries... she didn't sound like the woman he loved at all—

Dane leapt back out of the chair and shuffled over to the bed. But he couldn't lay down. He was too tense. His entire body rigid.

So he sank onto the edge, staring at the floor, elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands.

He couldn't even cry. He was… hollow. Cold. But not the kind of cold he wanted—where he was numb, and couldn't feel anything.

No, this… this was new.

A bone-aching chill.

The death of something.

Something good had died. A light blown out. And it was like his flesh sought it, yearned for it, but there was nowhere to look for it anymore.

And that was when he realized.

It was the death of hope.

It was a stunning moment that stole his breath as he looked at himself, turned his heart over and examined it, saw the darkness and the rot, saw the scars and places where he could still bleed. But they were so small compared to the rest.

Fuck. His father had done it. He'd finally cracked through the shell of Dane's heart and everything inside had spilled out to be scrambled. Consumed.

On some level he had to admire the man. He hadn't given up. He was relentless. How many years? Well, thirty, if Dane really looked at it.

Thirty years his father had been watching him, questioning him, following him, poking at him like he was some kind of medical experiment. Ruthlessly uncovering Dane's weaknesses and pushing at his buttons.

He'd finally found the right one.

Mentally, Dane took a step back and looked at himself, and what he saw made him ill.

He'd just cheated on his wife. His pregnant wife. And he prayed it would save her life and force her to turn her back on him forever.

Dane was hoping—praying—that Lila would walk away. Because then she'd be safe.

It was as if someone took hold of his ribs and tore him in half.

Turned out he could cry, after all.

****

"Dane?" His father's voice sent a spear of rage and terror to his gut. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed. In the dark. He didn't respond, but his father came inside anyway and walked over to stand in front of him. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm not."

There was a moment of silence. He couldn't tell if his father was examining his options for how to respond to that, or just playing a game, letting Dane sit with his defeat.

Then his father sighed. "I understand that you are… emotional about this. I also appreciate your commitment. I'll admit I questioned you earlier. I'm glad to have been wrong."

Dane wanted to leap off the bed and put his hands to his father's throat and throttle him until the light in his eyes went out. Bare hands, face to face, he wanted to kill his father. Dead.

It took his breath away.

"So, here's what we'll do, Dane. Since you came through for me today, I'm going to come through for you right now. I'm going to let you throw yourself this little pity party. I'm not going to force you to put your attention elsewhere. I'm going to let you… grieve, or whatever it is that you're doing. But you've got three days. So you do what you need to do during that time, but in three days, you show up. You understand."

"You're very clear, Dad."

"Good. We've got a big job and I've been holding back putting you on it. But you're mine now, the way it should be."

Dane had gone back to staring at the carpet.

When his father took the few steps to cross the space between them and put his hand on his head, he almost leapt out of his skin.

"I know you're struggling with this, Dane, but I want you to know, I can see what's around the corner for us, and it's amazing. You're going to rule the world, son. I'm proud of you, you hear me? You made me proud today."

Then he clapped Dane on the shoulder as if he'd just given him some kind of sick parenting, and he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, turning only once, before he walked out of the door.

"Three days, you hear me?"

"I heard you, Dad."

"Good boy."