Can't Fall in Love With You ✧ Rhink

Once More

Slight Trigger Warning (No Blood/Gore Though)

I took another swig, as the bitter taste of BudLight hit my tongue. I flipped through news channels, trying to find something interesting. The flickering lights of the television illuminated the rest of the dimly lit living room. I rubbed my eyes, focusing on the blurred numbers on my phone.

1:09 a.m.

I rubbed my face, trying to stay awake. I wanted to sleep, yet I didn't want to lay in the same bed my wife had an affair in. I rarely drank, for a good reason. Drinking brings back memories, usually resulting in a large battle between my subconscious and my brain. Which are basically the same thing.

I picked at the rubber buttons on the remote, irritated by how one single hair stuck up on this news anchor's head.

If you weren't such an OCD freak, that wouldn't bother you.

I don't have OCD. I'm not a freak.

What's that? You're not a freak? Have you noticed your hands feel... Contaminated?

I immediately felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I lifted myself off the couch, careful not to touch anything. If I touched something, I would risk contaminating it, too. I rushed over to the kitchen sink, lathering my hands in soap. I turned on the hot water, scrubbing my hands till they were red and raw.

Have you checked the front door lately? You did remember to lock it, didn't you?

I dried off my beat-red hands, shuffling over to the door. It was locked already, but I relocked it, just to be sure.

One more time.

One more check.

Once more wouldn't hurt.

I turned the lock, over and over again. I scratched and picked at my heated hands.

I hate this.

I know you do. That's why I do it.

I just want it to end.

It could.

I looked up, noticing the knife block in the kitchen, perfectly holding 12 silver, sharp knifes.

Hell no.

It'd be easy.

No it wouldn't.

I continued to fight with myself, checking the door once more, before sitting back down on the couch. I returned to flipping through channels, one by one they would flash on the screen.

You're worthless.

No I'm not.

Jessie thinks you're worthless.

Well, I'm not.

Link probably thinks you're worthless, too.

"Dad?" a soft voice asked me. I turned around, to see my little one's shaggy, blonde curls surround his face. He carried his stuffed teddy behind him.

"Hey Shepard," I said, getting up from the couch. He extended his arms, allowing me to pick him up. He dropped his teddy bear from his small hands, creating a soft 'creek' from the wooden floor. I leaned over with Shepard in my arms, retrieving his bear.

I carried him over to couch, so he could sit with me. I flipped on Spongebob so he could watch it. I figured he'd scurry off my lap to watch eagerly, like he usually does, but he remained snuggled against my chest.

"What's wrong, buddy?" I asked, pushing a stray curl out of his eyes.

"I had a ba' dream..." he whimpered. I played with his curls, arranging them in different styles.

"I'm sorry, buddy. You're safe now, 'mkay?" I asked him, kissing the top of his head, his soft curls tickling my face. He nodded his head, burying it deeper into my cotton t-shirt. I sat quietly with him, allowing Spongebob and Patrick's ridiculous voices lull my son back to sleep.

You're worthless.

I know.