Title: It's Not Over
Rating: T
Coupling: N/A
Summary: "—He was cold, calculating, never told me he loved me, didn't even tell me that he liked me, so it's a bit hard for me to digest that he said "CM Punk reflects on a letter from his father
Author's Note: Thought I'd play around with the CM Punk and his father thing. This is a drabble off my Iron Man roleplay account, hence where the top quote comes from. This is highly AU, as Punk is drinking, and the things with his father might not have happened the way this goes.
"—He was cold, calculating, never told me he loved me, didn't even tell me that he liked me, so it's a bit hard for me to digest that he said "
The idea was laughable.
'Greatest creation.'
—Who was he kidding?
Too little, too late.
The glass knocked against Punk's lap as he set it down, the burn of whiskey warm in his throat, and he bumped his elbow against some newspapers that sat on the bar, dishevelling them and resting his forehead in his palm, splaying his fingers and driving them back through his hair with a heavy exhale, and the purposeful slouch of his shoulders.
"—Cute, really, I mean, was that the point? I'm not seeing the punch line, old man. I'm drinking now, I bet your fucking happy"
Rub, turn, re read
The lights kept flickering on against the bar wall.
One glass, two glass, three—
"Proud of me, now? You should be, they're your footsteps. All things considered, I've done a pretty good job mirroring every fuck-upyou've ever made."
It was the last words of a man who'd done everything in his power to show how little he cared.
This was the man who'd dismissed him, sent him away. He hadn't only been neglectful, he'd been cruel. The bite of whiskey on his tongue and he could remember it all, better than anyone, better than those idiots who idol worshiped Thomas Brooks
Great man, sure.
Father?
He'd never been a remotely decent father.
He'd been alcoholic, abusive—
Emotionally, for the most part.
But...
Well, there was always a 'but'.
A blossoming bruise or two that Phil remembered.
A malt brandy forced into his hands, nine, and he'd been told to grow up.
He remembered his mother had cried.
A lot.
Rub, turn, re read
The re read wasn't necessary, it didn't bring comfort or clarity, and he scrunched it up, turning it between his hands before throwing it at the wall —Hard.
It fell to the floor, and he didn't feel better, but he didn't feel worse.
CM didn't feel like anything had been solved, and bypassing the glass, he wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle and lifted it for another mouthful, getting up and sinking into the couch at the side of the bar and resting his face in his hands, and covering his eyes with his fingers before his shoulders shook, before the weight pressed down on him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
Punk hated himself for it, how after all these years, the person who was supposed to love him unconditionally, still made him hate himself the most.
Greatest creation?
—Mistake seemed more apt.