Our Tainted Dream

Eight: Talk To Me

Reis' P.O.V

"Bastard!" He yells.

And like so long ago, he throws his chair across the room.

I sigh, running a hand through my strands before ruffling them. "I told you to nail it properly... Besides, that was a bit too far."

Way too far.

I flinch as he grabs my collar, his nails digging into my neck through the thin fabric. But I do not waver on the inside, long gotten used to his temper.

"Papa," I call, clenching onto his hands. Not a hint of love in both our voices. "Sometimes I wonder if he's poisoned you." He hisses, nail digging in deeper. But I stand my ground, staring back into his green eyes, burning with rage and anger. I try to pry his fingers off, one by one...

"He has nowhere to go; no money, no nothing. He has nothing. What else can he do? Where else can he go?"

After my little speech, his gaze softens, if only a little. "I want him dead in the worse way." He growls, letting go of my collar and returning to his desk while I make my way to the bed across.

"Let him make friends. Let him fall in love. Let him feel alive and happy. Let him live. You'll figure something out."

To my surprise, his head jolts up; his mouth slightly agape. Then slowly, the scowl turns into a crooked smile; then a grin. And what seems like he has lost his mind, he laughs aloud.

"That's my son." He sighs, catching his breath; the invisible tear wiped away with a brush of a hand. Good job Reis, you gave your wicked father another reason to hurt your own damn brother. Hooray.

With a loud sigh, I stand, walking towards the wooden door. "I'm not buying you another chair. Have fun preparing whatever horror you plan to give him." He rolls his eyes, swinging his hand in a shooing motion. "Oh, I will."

***

I expect myself to choke on my own blood, to stop breathing. To die. But I do not move, I cannot bring myself to move. As if her ghost is possessing me, holding my wrists tight in the air.

"Don't do this to me." I plead, though I know there is no such thing. The knife shakes in my trembling hands, begging to be released from an imaginary grip.

"I can't do it..." I breathe out, barely more than a whisper. Inside my head, a voice screams. And I have to control the urge to hug the damn gravestone.

Reid,

A small voice calls, struggling to pronounce the letter 'R'. And I recognize it all too much. A voice haunting me in my head, in my dreams, my entire life.

Are you owkay? Gentle, small, sweet. Always biting at his words. My little brother.

The small innocent boy I used to know is dead, poisoned by our father's lies. No, I am no longer sane. Everything is destroyed, everything is dead; everyone is dead. Everyone I've ever loved, everyone I've ever cared about. They're all dead.

The knife turns cold against the dirt, covered with dry leaves and pebbles; the sharp end gleaming against the faint moonlight... Yet I try to hold it.

***

My breath comes in pants, tired from laughing and crying at the same time; wrists covered with red liquid, new wound against old scars. The sky that was once dark blue is now painted with an orange gradient, a few stars still visible up high.

The streets are not crowded as usual; but there are still people walking on and about. Those who walk in pair whisper at each other. And ones by themselves stare, eyebrows furrowed in disgust, or pity, I cannot say. Even mothers cover their children's eyes at the sight of me.