Edward Morgan Blake watched the limo pull away from. He watched it for a very long time, all the way until it was out of sight. Inside he saw his daughter looking back at him as, beside her, the only woman he had ever really loved fumed. She hated him. He didn't blame her. He hated him, too.
She didn't want him around her daughter—their daughter. Who could blame her? Not him, certainly. He smoked, and he drank, and he cursed, and he killed. And raped. Who would want a rapist as a father?
No one. He certainly wouldn't want his little girl around a rapist.
But, for just a moment, he thought maybe he could change. If he could be—if he could have been—part of Laurie's life, maybe he would have changed. Maybe he could have. Maybe all the bleakness of the world would dissipate, and fall away, and he'd just be a man. Just a regular guy, like every one else managed to be. Like every body else in whole goddamned world.
Maybe… Maybe…
He sighed slightly—very slightly, almost unnoticeably—and turned away. The limo was gone. Long gone. The night air had chilled the flesh of his arms.
The Comedian hooked his thumbs through is belt and started walking.
It wasn't just the fact that he'd never get to be her father. No—it was the knowledge that some day, she'd know who he was, and all the horrible things he'd done—even if she only knew a fraction of the horrible things he'd done. And she'd hate him. She'd want nothing to do with him.
And who could blame her? Not him, certainly.
Who would want to know that a man who'd done such things was their father? Not him, certainly.
Why, it should be better a child die than have to know that their father was little more than a pirate—a poison-souled, empty-hearted shell of a man, pretending to laugh to cover up his tears.