2

I couldn't bring myself to stay there. I wasn't going to look upon the sickening face of my child like that without being able to help at all.

I return to our home with my jaw clenched and my hands shaking like hell. I had to take a taxi because I couldn't contain my posture and almost stumbled onto the sidewalk because of how weak I was. The urge to vomit has not pressured me in such a long time, and now I am quivering from utter nausea and panic. Back at the hospital, I had struggled to keep close to Rudy, despite the other half of my mind begging me to escape from that hellish place.

"Let me see her," I croaked, barely clinging onto the paramedic's shoulders.

He had shook his head urgently, making quick glances behind him to check on the others. I could barely see the girl. My jaw tightened painfully and I tried to push past him.

"Sir, I need you to leave," he said. "We'll work on healing her up and we'll give her some stitches. She'll be alright."

But my mind didn't let me rest. "I just want to see," I protested weakly.

"Your daughter will be alright," the paramedic insisted once more. "Please. I need you to go. We'll call you later. There is no use staying here without anything to do, anyway."

I gulped angrily, nails digging into my palms. My eyes scrolled behind him once again, back at the bleeding-out child that is underneath my care. The one that I should be taking care of. My lip began to quiver, but I forced myself to give her one last look before whipping around and storming out, my hands clasped over my mouth in a sickly, grossed out way.

Now I'm stumbling into the living room and collapsing onto the couch. Cold sweat stains are painted onto my neck and face. I run my hands through my hair and let out a deep, shaking breath. Words and images dash through my head like the blood in Rudy's wound. The dizziness has me tight in its grasp, and all it needs to do is make a simple snap, and there. I would vomit and faint at once. But my body just won't let me rest, both physically and mentally.

The house has already been searched by authorities - just for the gory scene in the kitchen. The knife was taken, but I can still smell that disgusting metallic scent that it left behind. And her small, pink hoodie. Just looking at it makes me shiver, and I curl up into a ball on the couch, mumbling to myself miserably. I could barely answer the questions that were given to me simply because of how anxious I was, and I had to be taken outside in order to calm down and pull myself together.

How the hell did she even get stabbed in the first place? My own questions are left without proper, accurate replies. There are no signs of someone breaking into the house. And I haven't received info of any fingerprints. Perhaps . . . Perhaps a demon or spirit attacked her. Yes, that seems to be the case. I wasn't here when she needed me, and it's all of my fault for letting her get hurt. What a fucking disappointment you are. Now you won't be able to spend time with her at all.

With trembling legs, I force myself to stand up. There's a lump in my throat that I cannot swallow down, like it's hanging there to remind me of the sudden shame and guilt that is constantly weighing down on my back. My scars are beginning to react again, like last time with that nightmare. I'm struggling to stand up straight, my spine curved and hunched uncomfortably and my neck aching itself into despair. My arms are burning and tingling with self-inflicted wounds from the past. And my head is chronically spinning once again, having only worsened from the nausea of seeing her like that.

There must be some painkillers in here somewhere. I shakily walk to the kitchen, wincing at the sight of Rudy's pink hoodie and narrowly avoiding it. My hand almost reaches out to feel its soft texture, if only for comfort, but I snag my arm away and force myself to look ahead. I hope nothing has been done to her necklace. Please, not again.

A few moments later, I have exactly six tablets of medication in my palm, which is, I know, most likely unhealthy for someone like me to take. But I don't care. There's no worry of me possibly dying from anything like this; I've already tried before.

I throw all of them in the six of my mouth, swallowing them painfully and letting out a sigh. Perhaps I should have six more. I'm too impatient to wait for the effect. I don't know if it'll even work.

I lean forward onto one of the kitchen chairs with a forlorn shadow on my face. I stare blankly at the counter. Unwillingly, my eyes slowly guide themselves to that stupid pink hoodie beside me, its owner long gone and far away from here. I'm all alone. She isn't here to wear it, despite how cold it probably is in this damn home.

Slowly, I outstretch an arm, ignoring the tingly, watery pressure beginning to build up behind my eyes. My long and bony fingers roughly wrap themselves around the youthful garment before bringing it towards me. I stare down at it with the harshest of anger. All of it is against myself.

At least she didn't have this on when she got stabbed. It's not filled with blood. That spot where her wound is, directly in the middle of her stomach. How deep is the wound, anyway? Can it kill her? Is she going to die? Has she already lost too much blood to survive? What if the operation at the hospital goes wrong? My hands wrap around the hoodie protectively as I finally think, Am I never going to see her again?

There is reluctance sitting gloomily in my chest as I take a seat in one of the chairs. I lay my head in my arms before letting the hoodie become a blanket around my shoulders, and I hang onto it tightly as if it is the only thing I have left in this world. The scars are continuing to pester and fight amongst themselves on the ground of my skin as my shoulders shake, and I finally let out the raw tears and sobs that I have held in for so long. So fucking long.

I need to get a drink.

I tell myself to stay at the house in case anybody visits me in order to question further about my wounded daughter. It doesn't mean that I would be prepared to answer; I would be too drunk and dizzy to even speak.

Being the powerful being of negativity, anything with positive energy is surely able to injure me, if not being natural emotion and as a form of an attack. I've always felt uneasy in the Positive Side, that heavy feeling always sitting inside of my head and throat like a cold stone. It's the place that I loathe the most.

But at least I can get some benefits out of it. For instance, its alcohol. All of it, since from the Positive Side, has positive energy. Much positive energy. So though it affects everybody else normally, only I will be poisoned by consuming it.

That is something that I can stand by with relief.

I had dropped my drinking habits long ago, when Rudy managed to pull me out of it. I was glad, and so was she. But now it's merely impossible for me to think of an excuse to not drink anything now that the girl is gone. Perhaps not forever, but long enough for me to suffer in my own loneliness.

My hand grips the bottle tightly, arm shaking. This feels like a faint memory; it's familiar, but I know that deep down inside I shouldn't be doing this. What would Rudy think of me? I look at the labels shamefully, my mouth curling into a frown. What if she gets better tomorrow? What am I going to do, then? Visit her underneath the influence of a hangover?

I huff, putting my head in my hands. I'm such a selfish man. Wasting time ruining myself when I should really be mourning for her. Get her a small little card or draw something for her. Make up a song for her. Make her feel better, for fuck's sake. But there is no energy inside my body, the sparkle of hope that had been there from before burnt out and dead. Maybe like Rudy, soon.

I feel myself shiver. No. Don't think about that.

My cold heart writhes and aches as I begin to shake once more. My hands cover the thick tears that gush out of my eyes, and I hunch over on the couch, sobbing miserably. Is this really what I'm going to do? Am I going to make everything worse? I hastily wipe the tears with my knuckles, clenching my teeth and letting out quiet whimpers and whines. They fall to the ground like clear droplets of blood, leaving dark shadows of internal wounds. Rudy would be ashamed. She'd be so ashamed.

I heave a quivering breath as I wrap my twitching fingers around the bottle once more. I want to crush it to bits. I want to use the shards of its glass and tear my skin apart. That spark of hope suddenly strikes back, returning to torment me. Finally. I actually have some use to myself, I think in despair. I deserve it.

"So this is what you're messing yourself up with," I mutter. "You fucking bastard." My grip on the bottle's neck begins to shake. "You fucking coward." I twist open the bottle and put it to my lips, hesitating for only a moment before beginning to drink it all down. The taste is scarily bitter, but I ignore it with the power of my negative thoughts and painful sadness.

I can feel the liquid pass through my throat like sour fire. But I don't stop until it's about halfway empty, the bottom of it clinking back onto the table. I continue to twitch and shake, not used to its taste and feeling. A small hint of refusal continues to beat in my chest, but I mistake it as feign, barely useful. So I continue to beat myself up and drink.

"What is she going to think?" I ask to nobody in particular. "Looking at you like this. All scratched up because of some little pathetic excuse." My claws begin to anxiously scrape against my wrist, the tingling sensation numb and barely noticeable. The fogginess begins to settle in my mind, and slowly, bit by bit, I begin to forget all purpose of why I'm doing this. All I see is red human blood dripping from a small human girl, the one I call my own child.

"You idiot," I hiss, claws beginning to dig. "Useless idiot. Piece of shit. Bastard." I drink from the bottle again, gulping it down more viciously, more aggressively. I feel like I'm choking from how fiery my throat feels. "You're just making her upset. Just- Just hurting her."

Then my skin finally breaks, and dark blood gushes out. I clench my teeth and tense my shoulders. That little bit of reluctance has disappeared completely, evaporated from the intense heat of the alcohol. I keep on scraping my skin. Black marks leave open wounds, marking like abstract art. It stings, but at the same time, I have never felt better. I deserve this. I deserve this. Again and again and again.

"Wh-What the hell are you doing?" I hiss once more. "You call yourself her father and . . . and you don't even a-act like it." The gashes are travelling to the insides of my arm, then my shoulders. Blood continues to gush and thrash, dripping from my skin like the watery droplets on my face. I drink again, swallowing each and every drop down until the bottle's all hollow and empty.

"Don't hurt her," I whisper.

Then my grip tightens around the bottle's neck, and suddenly, I bring it up into the air before slamming it down onto the table's edge. It breaks, snapping into a dozen sharp pieces. I immediately grab one of them and start tearing my arms apart, not caring about how much of a mess I'm making. Sweat mixes with blood and blood mixes with tears. My arms are now painted with black, caked and sticky. Everything burns, from my throat to my face to my entire body.

Right at my side is another bottle to down, and that is exactly what I do. My tongue feels rough and the inside of my mouth is disgustingly bitter. My mind is slugging down and turning to mush, and soon my hands are slipping against the memories of today. All I know is that I did something wrong. That Rudy is dying. That I had held her in my arms without doing anything useful. And now I can feel myself swaying as if I'm in the wind, slowly and gradually becoming more weaker than I already am.

"This is what you did to her," I sob, scratching at my bloody shoulders and rocking back and forth. "Th-This is wh- wha- what you duh-did." I begin to weep to myself, pieces of skin hanging off the frame of my limbs. Everything is so empty. My heart is thumping uncontrollably in my cold ribcage. Suddenly, breathing feels like being strangled, a thick wire choking me and wrapping around my chest, suffocating the oxygen that had made me feel so calm before.

Nothing is clear anymore. The world is spinning in and out, my composure dragging itself away and my hands beginning to turn limp. In no time, my neck begins to droop, head hanging low as I stumble around the room, trying to find something sharp to hold in my muddy mind.

"Look at wh-what you duh-duh-did to her," I weep. "You idiot. Goddamnit . . . control yourself!" I let out loud and messy sobs, not caring if there's anybody outside who can hear my screams and shouts. "She i-i-isn't here. Wh-Why isn't she here? Why is- isn't she here?" My bloody palms drag through my hair, pulling at the dark strands. "So a-alone. Why are you ssssss-suh-so alone?" Suddenly, I can't see anything. My eyes are blocked and glassy, my throat burning and raspy. I want someone to hold me. To hold my stupidly cold hands and tell me that everything is going to be alright. But I can't remember anybody else that has loved me before. I don't think anybody wants to love me.

It's becoming difficult to walk, and I hold myself up with a hand on the kitchen counter. I don't want to die alone. I want someone next to me. My fingers are wrapped around nothing, wrapped around nobody. No warmth. Everything is dead, cold and lifeless. I realize how pathetic I am in the little time I have left, and I want to bring it to an end.

". . . Maybe th-this wuh-will work, th-th-this time," I whisper. "P-Please work . . ."

A desperate hand snatches onto the closest object next to me, its metal point nearly piercing my already torn-apart skin. I don't know where to start. But I bring it up near my chest. Then I move it to my neck. It's where most of the pain is coming from, anyway. Physical pain, that is.

I'm swaying back and forth, but my grip on the knife stays firm. I don't know how many scars I already have, but it seems that they will be getting a new family member.

My eyes gloss out, and my head finally gives up its fight against the strength of alcohol taking over my brain.