That faithful winter in that same year, Lyle fell ill. Diphtheria, the doctor said. The damage to the throat, leading, eventually to suffocation.
Lyle was bedridden. Arthur would never admit it, but he was happy. This could be his chance. Almost no one ever survived Diphtheria.
Arthur went down the next morning to the doctor for medicine. It was cold out and the snowing was supposed to start in the next week.
He walked into the store with the familiar chime of a bell.
Arthur quickly asked the man if he had anything to treat Diphtheria. The man said he'd go into the back and check. Soon, he came back out with some bottles.
"Here you go, son," the doctor said, giving Arthur the couple vials of clear liquid. "This will help, but won't cure."
"Yessir," Arthur replied, sliding the man some cash, before his clever idea popped into his head. A nasty, but clever idea. "What shouldn't I give him?"
The doctor sighed, rubbing his bearded chin. "I would say alcohol, considering it would hurt the throat."
"Okay, sir, thank you, sir," Arthur said, scooping the bottles into his bag. He flashed a quick smile to the portly doctor, before quickly walking out the door with the chime of the bell.
He's ashamed that he did this, but that same day, he went across the street to the general store, and bought their strongest liquor. The disease was said to kill you in 5-10 years. Arthur would make it less.
He was ashamed with himself when he left that store and began the lonesome walk home. He had almost gotten used to his time without Copper, but it was times like these that he wished the dog was with him now.
He came into the house, got the bottles out of his bag, and got to work into the kitchen.
"What's this?" Arthur's father asked when he entered the room.
"The doctor said this would help," Arthur replied through the cloth covering his mouth. He didn't want the illness to spread to him.
Arthur had poured the liquor into the medicine bottle. He intended to keep refilling it, giving his father 3 "doses" a day.
He felt terrible when his father drank the alcohol, even though a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Thank you, son."
Arthur left the room without a second glance. This was his once chance.
That night he sat on the porch, gazing up at the moon and finding different constellations in the sky. He felt guilty, but looking there in the quiet night, he remembered everything his father subjected him to, and he didn't feel terrible at all.
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Bad Beginnings (A RDR2 Fanfic)
Fanfiction--- "Do you have a name, son?" the man asked. Arthur looked up. No one ever asked. What was his name? Oh yeah. "Arthur Morgan, sir." "Dutch Van Der Linde," the man replied, reaching out his hand to shake. Arthur accepted it. His hand seemed little...
