A/N: This is the first fic I've written in this style and in this point in time on this scenario. It just kind of all randomly spilled out. Hope it works!
It would've been his birthday today. He realizes this as he sits in the cold, dark room where he's staying for the time being. Just until he finally gets revenge. Revenge for Michelle's murder. His son's murder. His son who would've been five today, according to what his due date had been.
She was around three months along when it happened. He never got to see his face. He never got to hold him. He never got to see Michelle hold him. He never got to be a father. For three months he thought about what it was going to be like to be one, to take care of his little boy. He and Michelle talked about it all the time. She was so nervous, but he always knew she would be great with a kid. She would've been the most wonderful, most beautiful mother.
He feels a deep, sharp pain in his chest. It stings his core, makes him want to die, but he suddenly remembers why he's still living. At least why he thinks he should still be living. It's the only reason he's kept going without falling into an endless black pit (considering this wasn't that). Revenge.
For the first time he imagines what Michelle and his baby boy would be thinking if they knew what he was planning to do in just a few days. What he had been doing the past five years. All for the sake of revenge. But they're not with him anymore. They're not there to tell him he's crazy or evil or angry or wrong. And that's why he's doing it. Because they're not there.
He never got to teach his son right from wrong. Or make him strong, a fighter like his mom was. He never got to worry about him finding out about their past, and then eventually having to tell him. He thought they had gotten away from that past, but apparently they didn't.
For a minute he imagines what he might be doing at the moment if his son was still alive. Maybe he and Michelle would be singing 'Happy Birthday' to him. Or giving him his birthday present. Or maybe they'd be taking him out for ice cream or to the park. Or to a baseball game. He chokes at the thought. What he would give to be able to take his son to one baseball game; just spend a few hours with the boy he'd have turned out to be at five years old.
Five years. Five years is a long time to live—survive—without your wife and son. That's what he tells himself as he justifies what he's spent the last five years doing instead of holding his baby boy. He misses his baby boy; someone he never really knew. But he did know him. He talked to him, he loved him. He and Michelle talked about what he would look like, what he would be like. Yes, he misses him desperately. And everything he would've been.
Five years since he's seen his wife. Or touched her. Or kissed her. Or heard her voice. He misses her to the point of constant sickness. Especially when he remembers the extra few pounds she was carrying in front of her before she went.
He takes a moment to collect the pieces of himself that always crumble when he goes to that place. And then he subconsciously wishes a happy birthday to the little boy who would've been five today.