Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.
Note: Dialogue taken from the scripts. Script canon.
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Codependency
"I brought him into this world - I will take him out."
There it is.
I said it.
He's my son.
I admit it; I take the blame, the responsibility. I created life, I can't walk away from that. I created life, and I have to destroy it.
Still there's doubt in her eyes; I know she hears only my admittance of guilt, only my claim on the boy's bloodline. She won't hear my reassurances; she won't let them sink in until they're not only said but done.
I knew that would be her reaction.
That doesn't make it hurt any less.
That doesn't make this any easier.
The scent of blood, our kind's blood - my own family's blood - is filling up the car. It's tangible; it taunts the tension. The afternoon has fled, and evening makes the scent of blood even harder to resist.
The pitiful, little blonde in the backseat that used to call me Uncle looks sweeter than a wounded doe. Weak and frail; she isn't the one I want, she isn't who I want to hurt; she isn't who any of us want right now. But she's there. She's there, and it's so easy to take it out on her.
"Stop the bleeding."
It teases too much.
Those dark eyes beside are staring at me; hard as her will, sharper than her knife. She's suspicious, so suspicious; she questions me, more than ever.
"I need you. Now, more than ever."
I almost want to remind her of that.
Almost.
She's hurting me too much with that glare, and I can't.
Besides. She should know better by now.
But then she probably thinks she doesn't know anything now.
Can't blame her.
It's my fault.
He's my son.
She's my wife.
It was another life.
But that's not good enough.
They're still real; that life still happened.
I can't say I'm not Caleb.
I can't tell her she's the only one who whispered that name in the dark.
But that's over with.
I don't want it anymore.
I don't want them anymore.
The ones I do want just stand by and watch me tie the little lamb down.
Poor, little kitten. Strung up like a dead cat; and I'm doing it, I'm showing them.
Because there's still doubt in their eyes.
And she's questioning me; doubts me. She's doubting the entire plan; she wants the blonde dead, she wants the wife dead, she wants the son dead, she wants them all. And she doesn't believe she'll get them; she doesn't believe in me.
It's suffocating me; she doubts me.
Rachel never doubted me. She believed every word I ever said. She never questioned me. She never suspected me. Every time an inconsistency rose, she quickly fell for half-assed lies drowned out by sweet nothings that made me sick.
How did I ever love her?
But I loved her.
And she knows that. She stares hard at me, and she knows that.
She isn't the first. She fears she won't be the last, and nothing I say will fix that.
Actions are the only thing she wants.
They speak louder than words, as the human phrase goes.
Rachel always did shy from loud noises.
And I loved her once, because I was naïve enough to believe that was what I wanted.
But I never needed her.
She's my wife.
He's my son.
This is my niece, and they are my family.
And I will kill them.
I will kill them all for her.
Because, because, because I can't say the things I need to say, want to say. Because I know she won't believe them; words mean nothing to her now. I've lied to her too many times, and she isn't what I thought I wanted.
She's what I need.
And I need her; more than I love her. But I love her more than myself.
And I almost want to hate her for it.