Our Tainted Dream

Five: Hello Mum

Reis' P.O.V

He trembles against the blanket, clenching onto it like a lifeline, breathing heavily as if drowning, sweating as if burning.

"I'm sorry," He whispers, again and again and again, tears rolling down his pale cheeks. Nightmares, I suppose.

Gently, I grab his shoulders, laying him down to one side.

The night is still young, and he's already having nightmares. Not that it's new. Somehow, mum always finds a way to make them go away. I guess her presence soothes him.

Of course so many things changed after she left. And it affects him more than it affects me. His attitude, his personality, his physical appearance; all seem too dead and broken and sad.

His brown hair now paper white; from stress, from the traumatic experience of everything that happened. His warm skin now pale and cold, shimmering eyes now dull of life and not to mention he seems thinner day by day. His hands never stop quivering, trembling. From the cold air, from fear? Maybe from pain? I can't say.

I hate him, but I still care about him enough to pity him. Everything that happened during those fourteen years still haunts him, changing him completely. A mess, hurt, broken.

I do not flinch when his body jolt, a sharp gasp escaping his lips, tears prickling in his eyes and his hands grasping at his chest. I don't bother him. He wakes up like this every day; but never did he cry.

His shoulders shake, holding back salty tears. Slowly, he buries his face in his knees, whimpering like a kicked dog.

He apologizes to nothing but air, repeating the words over and over again. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I hate that.

I lean against my chair, playing with the pencil between my fingers. "Go back to sleep," I murmur, snapping one finger to gain his attention. Which, of course he does.

"It's still early."I say, and he sucks in a breath in attempt to calm down, exhaling with all in his chest.

Though I donlt think any came out.

He sighs, breath shaky as he lies back down, eyes staring into the abyss. Empty. His fingers twitch here and there, sometimes shaking too violently for my comfort.

"Loureis," He calls, his voice raspy, using a name I despise myself. It's too... how do I say this, old.

I do not answer, but he continues anyway. "I don't think I'm sane anymore." He whispers, playing with the ring around his pinky, too big for male fingers.

Part of my wants to go hug him, but part of me wants him to be six feet under. He looks miserable, tired, hungry. The smile he used to play on his lips long ago seems to fade. And if anything, it's nothing but fake.

Papa told me long ago, when I was a child, still young and naïve; that he was the cause of her death. He tried to kill her and he tried to kill him. He  knocked him out in the process, and I believed every word.

And now, thinking back it doesn't make sense. Why would a child try to kill his own mother? Especially when the mother is everything to him. Four years old shouldn't even be playing with scissors. And a knife is out of the question.

But papa loves mum, he loves every inch of her. And he doesn't hide it. But he, too changed after mum died. He became cold, harsh, a mean father.

Then again we all change at some point. Even if he did killed her, I can't seem to believe that matter―of―fact. If I go to him and say, 'Hey, you killed mum.' I'll definitely be his next target. And even if he doesn't, I won't have a family to go back to. Reid's hurt and broken; it'll take long to turn him into the child he used to be.