Our Tainted Dream

Twenty Five: Papa's Sorry

Reis' P.O.V

For the third time this week, he slides down the counter, face buried in his palms. His tie is loose from his collar; hair messy from the times and times he runs his hands through them. If

If Reid were to see this... father being so helpless and weak. Will he reach out? Will he laugh? Of course he'd laugh, I tell myself. Albeit my heart says the opposite.

"Leila," He calls, voice shaking, tears rolling down his perfect face.

"Leila."

Mum's name.

Over and over... almost like he's calling for her dead spirit. Over and over... A beggar unseen by a crowd of rich people. A lost husband grieving his dead wife.

That he murdered.

"Leila," He calls.

"Leila."

His left hand scratches his side, the side bleeding red and neatly bandaged. The side that Reid stabbed; merciless steel against his own father.

Gently, I grab at his hand, his head jolting as I do so. It's warm and rough, well-shaped and bony. Well, I don't question. He can't live one day without looking at his office reports. And his fingers never stop working.

Almost instantly, he pulls away. But I grab it once more. "Father, best not scratch the wound..." I murmur, placing a quick kiss on his ringed finger.

Without warning, he pulls me into his chest, his heart beating faster and faster. Fear, regret, sorrow,

Pain.

"He killed her, Reis." He breathes, almost gasping. "He killed her—the knife was in his hands—" Slowly, he cackles, once or twice shaking his head. "He murdered her, took her away from me!"

Ever so slightly, his hands tremble, his whole body shaking. "Reis, you believe me, don't you?" He asks, heaving heavy breaths, almost anticipating for an answer. "Don't you?"

His big hands, warm and rough pats my head, treating me as if I were a small child. Treating me the way he would never treat my elder brother.

I could almost see... Reid kneeling beside me, bleeding, pale, dead eyes staring into mine, dull and void of emotions. His lips curl upwards, playing a ghost of a smile. I hate that smile.

Burning, burning at our little act of father and son.

The little act he could never have.

And as I blink, his face melts into a pool of blood.

"I believe you..." I murmur, sinking into his warmth. At my response, he relaxes, sighing a long breath. "Reis," He breathes, hands trailing to my spine.

He trails it up and down, chin resting atop my head. He's shaking, trembling, quivering like a spooked animal. "Be a good boy and behave okay? Be a good boy..."

Was he bad? Was he different? Was he better?

Cackles, chuckles, deep laughter.

He grabs me by the chin, almost crushing my jaws with his fingers. The tears now dry, despite staining his cheeks. He looks mad, insane. Psychotic.

"You're my only son, Loureis. My only flesh and blood, you hear me? I am your father, understand?"

"I understand."

And after a few hours he starts drinking.

He doesn't drink a lot.

Slowly, I stand, taking off his jacket, leaving him in his shirt and loosened tie. I reach to undo it, but he smacks my hand away.

His fingers bleed from the shards he clenches, from the shards of wine bottle he clings so hard on. "Come on, let's get you to bed." I say softly, his eyes glossed and drunken.

"No!" He whines, clutching the shards harder. I smack his hand, making him whine louder.

"Reis, let me go. I can see her if I drink more—"

Delusional.

"Father, you know that's not her."

Since when were you so addicted to drinking?

"Mum's dead."

Another drop of tear. I sigh, giving him another tight hug. "It's not me." He whimpers, trembling harder than usual. His rough stubble brushes against my head, teeth gritting as he tries to hold back tears.

If only Reid could see this side of him. This—fragile, broken side of Daniel Davidson. If only he could see how normal he really is. If only he could see his tears, his shaking form.

But why do I side with him?

Why do I side with him when he is at fault?

Why do I push my brother away when he deserves the title? Why do I push Reid away when he did nothing wrong? He loves me still, but why do I not? Why can I not? Why do I still love this man before me when all he ever does is...

Hurt?

Was father hurt too back then? Was he in pain? Was grandpa abusive? There must be a reason. There is always a reason.

"Reid, Reid, it's always Reid." He murmurs, not flinching one bit as I pluck the glass from his skin. "What makes him so special? Why is it always him?" He hisses, kicking his foot against the kitchen cabinet.

Was he jealous?

"Gives me the—" He mutters, quickly leaning by the sink. His unholy groans fill my ears as I rub his back, his hand clutching onto his kidneys as he lets his insides out.

"—creeps."

I pull all his strands back, Making sure to clip his hair back with a bobby pin. Why I have that? Well, why do you not?

(I honestly lost all of my bobby pins rip.)

He groans, washing his mouth as I pull the back of his hair into a small tail. He groans and pulls at the band, letting the hair fall back to his face.

"I need a moment," He says, quickly making his way to his room. He wobbles, sliding against the wall once or twice.

Despite his composure, he can never deal with his mood swings.

He tumbles against the door, struggling to even close it.

As I follow, putting my back against the closed door, I hear a loud thump coming from the inside.

"I'm sorry.

"I'm sorry.

"I'm sorry, Reid.

"Papa's sorry."