"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before..."
-Edgar Allen Poe
It was over.
Soft whispers and tiny giggles were the only sound in the room now that her crying had stopped, and his racing heart began to calm. Booker cradled his daughter in his arms, rocking her back and forth gently as he told her over and over how much he loved her. How he would give her a better life. How he'd turn it all around. How it would be different this time.
He felt like a man waking from a nightmare.
How'd it end up like this? The scent of stale booze permeated the chilly air of the house; empty bottles decorated his desk and the floor alongside half-smoked cigarettes and various trash. The clothes he wore were half a week old at best, and nearly every bit of of the place was in disuse and disrepair.
Anna deserved better.
Where had this sudden resolve come from? Why the sudden disgust spurring him? Was it the unsettling dreams that he couldn't quite remember? Something about... selling her? Murder, more and more, and... He didn't know. He couldn't recall it, but his stomach turned just at the thought of losing her, at the thought of hurting her.
He would change, he thought as he checked his reflection in the sepia glass of a dusty bottle. He brushed lank hair back from his eyes, framed by dark circles sitting high over gaunt cheekbones sporting days of unshaven stubble. The floorboards creaked as he paced, holding his face in his hands; the headache he sported was larger than Lady Liberty herself. Generally, he'd find the cure at the bottom of a drink. But not today.
Not anymore.
Gambling wasn't doing them any good. He was being stupid. He was wasting any chance at a future and putting them deep into a debt he'd never get them out of if he didn't get a hold on himself. Some might say he was still a kid, sure, but suddenly Booker felt a hell of a lot more aware of his recent missteps. And besides - he'd done enough to haunt the nightmares of scores of men. God knew they haunted him well enough.
Best not to think about that.
Not now. That's what had landed him here in the first place. A new bounce showed in his heel, a new fire in his step as he circled the room. What could he do? How could he make them a living that didn't involve committing horrors upon others? He wasn't skilled at anything besides brutality.
...Was he?
From the other room, he heard Anna coo from the open doorway. He'd figure it out. He had to, for her sake if nothing else. There had to be something, anything he could do - shine shoes, maybe, fix things -
A rough knock at the door broke through the quiet, startling him from his reverie. Again it came a moment later, insistent. Who the hell -
A voice - an eerily familiar voice. He could swear he heard the man on the other side somewhere before, and a thrill of anxiety raced through his blood at the calling of his name. He felt dizzy with it, and he didn't know why.
"Mr. DeWitt!"
Again with the rapping. Booker stepped forward, angry and apprehensive.
His hand reached for the doorknob.