Chapter 27
Shot full of holes
Haymitch twisted the locks but it was a lost cause. The handle wouldn't budge an inch. He cussed under his breath.
Capitolians. Always making things difficult for everyone else. Even something as simple as a front door you needed a manual for. He wasn't that drunk, honestly. He only had dregs all day.
The whisper of rain tapped on the frosted glass and he gave the handle another forceful rattle. God knew it would be satisfying to go all apeshit on the fucking thing but Effie usually spent the afternoon napping and he wouldn't risk waking her, hell no.
"Come on," he hissed as he turned and twisted the locks for surely the 50th time. And just when contemplating jumping out a window the door jerked open and he staggered forward, onto the front step.
Squinting he held up a palm against the ball of butter in the sky. But the warm drips of rain were sweet as a caress against his flaking, sunburn skin. It wasn't much but he took what he could get after months of roasting like a chicken in the oven.
He hated these yearly droughts. Not just the "sweating like a pig" part – which was maddening in and of itself – but the painful memories they harbored.
The dry spells of his childhood always meant a starving winter for the districts since the crops wasted away in the fields. It didn't matter that the desperate situation was now a thing of the past. The anxiety was built in to his nervous system somehow. Like waking up hyperventilating in the days and weeks of the Hunger Games despite them being over for several years now.
Whenever they were blessed with rain, no matter how scarce, he always went outside. He and his brother both. Amadeus used to hold his skinny arms up as if to embrace the sky.
And old habits die hard.
Course, even without this God-sent drizzle Haymitch would have left his room sooner or later. He could only stay for so long in a closed space before it turned in to a tomb; a noose around his throat.
Supported by the curved, black-painted railing he lowered himself on to the stubby, old welcome mat.
The drizzle shone like drops of gold in the afternoon light. Made rings on the pond. Rainbows in the glittery air.
It wouldn't last of course. Nothing did.
And true enough. Almost before he thought it the sky closed the tap. The baking sun dried the wet marks off the moss-soft asphalt and the pond turned mirror-clear. Smooth as ma's grand piano, back in the day. Puffy, white clouds sailed across the surface, upside down, as if mocking him.
He was just groping around for the hip flask when a white delivery van pulled up to the curve. A boy no older than Katniss and Peeta jumped out. He lifted a crate the size of a small hope-chest from the trunk and set it by Haymitch's feet.
"Delivery for Mr. Haymitch Abernathy and Ms. Effie Trinket," he said in a bored voice, his eyes never leaving the communicuff or whatever he had on his arm. He had a big, protruding snout surrounded by pimples. "Sign here, please."
He did and the boy swung himself back in to the car and drove off, leaving only the faint smell of gasoline.
In moments like these he really missed his knife but after a broken nail or two he managed to lift the lid.
Before him, in neat rows lay white paper packets of cookies, packages of muffins and fragrant rolls, well wrapped up.
Curtsey of Baker Boy. Only this time in even greater abundance.
He plucked a packet at random. He hadn't eaten in well over six hours and even then only nibbles, washed down with liquor. He broke off a piece of the soft-baked, crisp-edged cookie and slipped it in to his mouth.
There was a postcard too, smelling like its baked travel companions. A drawing of Buttercup glaring at him from under a honeysuckle bush.
He flipped it over and just like he recognized the strokes and colors of the drawing he knew that neat, careful handwriting even before he read the signature.
"Oh, Peeta. You could teach a calligraphy course," Effie thrilled in his memory, admiring the swift J's and R's and M's on the menu board. "Our children are so talented in so many ways, aren't they?" she beamed and squeezed Haymitch's arm, like it was all her doing.
"'cept they aren't ours, sweetheart."
She gave a light shrug, like it couldn't possible matter.
"Close enough. Now," she added, hand tucked in the crock of his elbow. "What dessert do we fancy?
Chewing slowly, Haymitch stared at the postcard and the few written lines. The kindness behind each word.
Happy birthday, Haymitch!
Yes, I know you don't make a big hoot about it but
you know Effie will beat us over the head with a stick if she believes we've forgotten you.
How is everything? You and Effie OK? Tell her we send our love. The geese are all thriving. Katniss says hi! Give us a call sometime.
Peeta
P.S: Sae says that if you ever run short on baby clothes she's got a whole dresser full. She misses you. We all do. Will you come and visit soon? Once they're old enough?
Take care, Haymitch. Stay out of trouble.
The creamy chips of white chocolate, the tart dried cranberries grew in Haymitch's mouth.
He unpocketed the hip flask and tipped it up, despite better judgment. Swished the mouthful for a good 10 seconds before he let the whole sweet-sour concoction go down, leaving nothing but the bitter, familiar, tongue-numbing taste.
He slipped Peeta's postcard back in the crate along with the packet of half-eaten cookies. Closed the lid with finality. Effie could have them. All of it, really.
With all the painful memories those treats brought up – the kids, the bakery, his life with Effie – he'd rather starve.
Instead he helped himself with another sip, arms slumped over his knees.
He completely forgot the 23th of August was coming up. What day was today? The 10th? Yeah, something like that.
"Now you won't be able to run and hide on your special day," Effie had told him weeks earlier, very pleased over the realization. "Not when it's only five days before theirs. Yes, I see a long line of joint birthday parties coming up. And I get to spoil all three of you."
"Nah," he replied. "It's Amy and Ian's big big big day. My birth's hardly worth celebrating."
"It is to me," said Effie in a firm voice. "At it will to them too. You're their daddy."
Yeah, like she had to remind him of that fact.
Odd she hadn't brought it up. His birthday. It was one of those annoying, annual convos he could usually count on.
Course, they hadn't been very chatty lately. Nothing but mindless small talk when the silence stretched too long.
She hadn't even brought up her buying the house yet. That was odd, actually. Why keep it a secret? Maybe she wanted to wait until the babies were born. Or was afraid she'd scare him off if she told him she wanted to stay in the city.
Silly, of course but it wouldn't be the first time Effie Trinket's reasoning made no sense to anyone.
He sipped the hip flask, already running on empty. His gaze fell on the pond again. Not even the tiniest gust of wind disturbed the pretty surface.
A split second he entertained the thought of flinging a grabful of gravel in to it. Ruining the perfect image, in only for a moment.
But of course he didn't. This wasn't the lake of District Twelve. That's not how you treated a pond holding wishes for unborn children.
He sighed, watching the pretty glimmer of tiny, crushed rocks along the pathway. He'd be damned if they hadn't all been washed individually, cleansed, upon arrival.
"I ought to send you the cleaning bill." The memory surfaced, uninvited. Effie giving him a pointed look as she dusted off her butterfly dress.
His wretched birthday party. The first one, really. The one that started it all. When Effie strode back into Twelve and back into his life with her chess set and killer fang shoes and he threw rocks at her. Well, tiny ones just to show her where he was.
She even spooned him.
Yeah, that was quite the experience. He'd woken up in some weird places over the years that's for sure, but waking up as the "little spoon" that was definitely top three.
Bristel and Thom laughed their asses off when he pushed inside the Hob for his first drink.
"Looking a little perked up, old man?"
Oh, the irony. Fucking in a groove of apple trees during harvest season slipped under the radar but Effie spooning him for a few moments outside the Victor's Village where no one else ever went, everybody heard of that.
Those were the days. Truly! When he hadn't had sex in so long he was practically revirginized, blissfully unaware of the fact he could actually get a woman pregnant, not only thoroughly but at the drop of a fucking hat!
This ramshackle, paunchy, middle-aged, beat-down, idiot body never ceased to amaze him. Useless in every respect, except for making babies.
If he'd lost his head out in the woods and came in her that one time, he bet Effie's buttons he would have sent her home to the Capitol with a kid in her belly as early as then.
With an ever deeper sigh he tipped the flask up, savoring the precious drops.
He guessed he just missed home. Where sour milk tasted like sour milk, only cats had cat whiskers and people didn't dye their trees.
Just look at this garden, for instance. A perfect rectangle of neatly arranged nature. Just the pond, the tree and the meticulously tended green carpet, dotted with blooms he had no name for. If they really cramped together he and Effie, June and Annabel and possibly Katniss's prep team might be able to sit there together, all at the same time.
Plus the stroller, of course.
June and Annabel's garden may be drab and unorganized in the eyes of the Capitol but compared to this his yard was a jungle.
And not even an exciting one. The tall grass, the gnarled, twisted old trees, weeds suffocating what little was left of the flowerbeds. Probably dangerous too. Ticks, snakes. poison ivy and God knew what else.
No place for little kids.
A movement just at the corner of his eye interrupted his thoughts. He looked to the right, across the fence into the next-door garden just in time to see the curtains pull apart and a head of red hair. The woman behind the window unhooked the locks and swung it open but by that point Haymitch's eyes had already returned to the pond.
He was hardly at fault for how his house and yard turned out. Want to blame someone: blame the Capitol who made him stay there in the first place. He ran out of reasons to keep it nice decades ago. For whom? Certainly not his future children.
"Ahem…"
The neighbor's cough rang across the road but Haymitch ignored her.
After the war the gardens of the Victor's Village was Peeta's therapy project for a while. First he got those primroses for Katniss and planted them under the windows.
Naturally, his next step, since they caused her such painful flashbacks, were the rose bushes.
That was a feat for any gardener. Snow's favorite bloom were everywhere in the Victor's Village. They hadn't been touched since the days of the groundskeeper and their thorns were sharp, the roots running deep.
But the boy got rid of them, all of them, to everyone's relief. Haymitch's too. He could really do without the poor girl's bloodcurdling screams that cut through even the thickest of walls.
Eventually, after the occasional daffodil or petunia, a family of marigold, more important stuff got in the way. Especially since the long-awaited re-opening of the bakery.
Katniss and Peeta's garden stayed homey enough but time spent on the mentor's old yard was good time wasted. He told them as much.
"Ahem!"
This time the cough followed upon a very calculated accidental clatter of arm jewelry. The sound creased Haymitch's eyebrows.
How was he supposed to know life would throw him this curve ball? Past the age of 16 he never planned on sharing the house with anyone. The Abernathy name was supposed to die with him. That's the plan all along. Or lack of a plan, really.
"Ahem!"
Finally Haymitch shot the woman a side-ward glance.
"Need a cough drop or somethin'?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Mrs. Bitch spat back. Because of course it was her. Always her.
As Effie's pregnancy steadily progressed she had become more and more rigid about his vocabulary.
"I don't want that word anywhere near the twins," she said every time he let a bad one slip. It's not just us anymore, Haymitch. We need to start paying attention to these things. And by 'we' I mean you. Little pots have ears too."
So it really said something that she didn't oppose as much when it came to his on-point nickname for the charming next-door neighbor.
"That's different," she said when he called her out. "Whilst a bit… crude, the term literally means "female dog" so technically it isn't a foul word."
"Soo, a-holes and people you don't like are fair game, huh?"
"I didn't say that." But even she was suppressing a smile. "But I do wonder what words she has reserved for me," she said with an undeniable tinge of pride in her voice. "She looked down on the likes of me long before I carried your…"
"Devil's spawn?"
"I was going to say children."
Mrs. Bitch's real name was Pluckrose. He actually remembered this one. Hard not to, for all the obvious reasons. He even recalled her first name. Virginia. Because she was anything but. Virgin-like, that was.
She was absolutely addicted to charity. Or the glory it gave her family name, really. During the Games she had spent an exorbitant amount of her husband's money sponsoring career tributes from District 1 and 2. Then, after the war she did a 180 degree turn and started donating to the rebuilding of Panem instead. Primarily the Capitol.
Effie said the Pluckroses were one of many families who instantly turned sides when the war was lost. Like boatmen quickly rowing away from a sinking ship.
The kind of people who hid their framed photos of President Snow when necessary. Who proclaimed they never really approved of the Hunger Games in the first place, praising Paylor's progress while secretly calling her a power hungry rebel usurper crushing this fine country under her boot.
She was older than Effie. Maybe 50-55 years of age and a living, breathing playground for the upper top field of plastic surgeons.
From her smooth, marble brow down her wasp-waist and piano legs there was hardly one part of her not yet altered or prodded with a needle. Course, she denied it with a vengeance.
Arms crossed over an ample, fortune-spent bosom she stared him down, nostrils big as bat caves.
"Can I do something for you?" he asked.
Mrs. Bitch huffed a breath, like a bull. Her spider-leg lashes shadowed cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them.
"How long will you sit out here, Mr. Abernathy? I'm having some girlfriends over for dinner."
"Yeah? Thought you were married. But good for you."
He tipped the flask up, licked his lips for good measure.
"This is a respected neighborhood, Mr. Abernathy! Not a district tavern. Can't you finish your drink inside? They'll be here at any moment!"
In answer, he let out a big, bad-smelling belch. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and said,
"Those are some gorgeous new lips, ma'am. Could have sworn they were real."
He raised his flask in salute. Mrs. Bitch looked at him like he was a pile of dog poop stuck on her shoe.
"Those poor poor children of yours", she said. "I do feel for them I really do!"
And she slammed the window shut.
On any other day it would have been music to his ears, getting under Mrs. Bitch's tight skin like that.
Now, the quick encounter left him more hollow than ever.
Why would Effie choose someone like her for a neighbor when she could have Katniss and Peeta? Why'd she want any of this for her own flesh and blood?
18 years in this hellhole, Amy and Ian would turn in to vain, freakish airheads with cotton for brains and no real grasp on reality.
Better than waste-of-space drunks.
The hip flask was dry as a bone. He put in on top of the bread crate where it caught the rays of the setting sun shining in the cuts and scratches of a life well-served.
He didn't even have enough energy stored up to stay mad at Effie.
When he first overheard her conversation with Annabel it was the rehab pamphlets all over again.
"We'd love it if you stayed. You and the children. That way you don't have to start over fresh in another district."
He knew Effie was looking for a place here in her birth city but the fact she browsed for houses all over the country, without even telling him – that was like taking a blow squarely in the chest.
What about Twelve? Would she move literally anywhere as long as it wasn't in close proximity to him?
Robbed. That's exactly what it felt like. Annabel stole from him when she offered Effie their house on a silver platter. She knew he had a plan. He told her as much when he first got here. Maybe not in so many words but anyone with half a brain could figure it out, right? He'd bring it up with Effie eventually.
Bloody Flickerman saint!
He could just imagine the conversation.
"Here, have the house. It's not like that good-for-nothing drunk's every gonna man up. You know you can't raise the twins in Twelve anyway. They'll just become savages like him.
Even mid-rant he knew he was being unfair.
And was that what he wanted, anyway? For Effie to move in with him because she had nowhere else to go?
The thought took all the wind out of his sails.
What could he offer her? Offer any of them? Some smelly old rat's nest in the middle of the woods. About as comfy as the inside of a toilet.
Of course she wanted to live here. Who wouldn't? It was just common sense.
But it hurt. It fucking hurt that Effie would not even consider the alternative. Not his place, not the empty houses of the Victor's Village or even something closer to town where he could at least visit on a regular basis.
They're my kids too. Don't I get a say in where she carts them off to?
"I'm so proud that they're yours." That's what she told when he first got here.
Yeah, good joke. He almost believed her too. Wanted to believe it.
But what else to tell yourself when you were already knocked up? Effie was always one to make the best of a bad situation.
You fool. You thought this was gonna turn in to some kind of happily ever after? She has the kids and suddenly realizes she loves nothing better than a life with you? A life of what, exactly? Wiping vomit and throwing out empties and trying to keep the children's mental health intact?
He should be grateful for this turn of events. It solved all of their problems, didn't it?
God, I feel sick.
The sun, momentarily embedded in a blanket of clouds, peeked our again and Haymitch groaned, eyes closed.
Maybe it was time he headed back inside. Put the crate away. Make Mrs. Bitch happy.
Wobbly like a sailor at sea, more from the heat than anything else, he got up and actually managed to open the door on the first try this time.
He lifted the crate in a way you should never lift something and struggled inside the dark hallway. Peeta's gift was a lot heavier than it looked and light-headed and half-blind from the bright sunlight he careened into the hall table. Effie's purse was knocked over and all of her things spilt out.
"Shit…"
He deposited the crate on the first available spot, by the umbrella stand and stuffed the lipstick and crackers, napkins and strain coins back inside the purse. A neatly written shopping list had sailed under the shoe rack and he grappled for it, back slick and itchy.
Baby oil, he read. Perfume free. Infant nail clippers. Boogie bulbs. Whatever the hell that was. He put it with the rest and snapped the purse shut.
Ma and pa didn't need all that stuff to raise their kids. Course, what did he know about anything?
Her shawl had slid off the curvy coat stand too after his encounter with the hall table.
He picked it up. Ran the exquisite fabric between his fingers. Soft as satin, light as air it flowed through his hands like water. Swirls of black and green and red shone in the evening light but all the threadwork keeping it together were golden.
He brought it to his nose. Why not? There was no escaping the ghosts of long-lost happiness anyway. Not today.
Eyes closed he inhaled her faint perfume. Allowed himself just a moment getting lost in the sweet memories.
Midnight. Moonlight. Sitting by the window, slouched and naked with just the bottle for company. Sleepless like most nights.
Effie could always tell when he was brooding. It was one of her many odd talents. Not ten minutes after he left their bed she came down the stairs. Naked and gorgeous and wrapped in a shawl even he could tell were fancy.
"Brrr." He needn't fake the shudder when he had her on his lap. "You have got a lot of warming up to do. Your feet are ice cold."
Effie smiled and linked her arms around his neck. Her hair was tousled from making love. Flames from the burning logs combined with the wash of moonlight turned her into some un-earthly being.
"We need more carpets around here," she said. "Or perhaps some underfloor heating."
"'We'?"
"Why, of course. It's our home we're talking about. Trust me, you need my well-developed taste in these matters."
"Your taste? Yeah, maybe I do." He dropped a sensuous kiss against her neck and Effie wriggled like a worm.
"Tickles!" Giggling she drew back, arms still around his neck. And oh, Good. Looking into those Capitol blue eyes warmed him more than any circuits of hot water pipes ever could.
The shawl had slipped off her shoulders leaving her in all her naked glory. It was a great view, indeed. Especially the way her breasts responded to the open air but goose bumps rose on her flesh and he wrapped the shawl back around her.
He brushed an edge of it between his thumb and forefinger.
"This is some bold piece of fabric, Trinket."
Effie smiled.
"Thought you'd like it. I told the sales girl I needed something special to help seduce me a gorgeous man."
"You did not. And since when do I need seducin'? I'm the easiest lay there is."
Effie chuckled.
"Lucky me." Hand cupped against his stubble she sought his lips in a searing kiss. The open-mouthed kind that never failed to make him light-headed. Never failed to get him going again even when positive he wouldn't manage another round.
"Come back to bed," she mumbled against his lips and when she grasped for the bottle he didn't put up a fight.
He just filled his now free hand with one of her breasts and groaned at the sweet sensations she caused with so little effort. Tingles ran down his left thigh.
That's how it always started. With those playful flames only Effie could ignite. And it was the shawl too.
He could never resist her when she wore something golden.
Breathing out a sigh Haymitch opened his eyes. Disoriented and squinting, like waking from a dream. The hand holding the shawl slumped to his side and it wasn't midnight, it wasn't his house. It wasn't even his life. Not in the way it was supposed to.
He hung the shawl back on the coat stand.
He could never compete with this place so why try? The fancy living room alone, from the bookshelves filled with books to the magnificent floor candle holders by the fireplace was like something straight out of Capitol Homes and Gardens. The snobby magazine Effie read religiously.
And yet, knowing now that she and the kids would never come live with him in Twelve he realized a part of him, a bigger part than he wanted to admit, did think he could turn things around. Buy like ten gallons of soap and clean up the mess.
But who was he kidding, really?
He could scrub the floors until his knuckles bled. Effie would never approve.
What kind of a mad woman would look at his pigsty and declare: "Here's where I want to raise my kids!"
If he was out of the picture then maybe. If he got struck by lightning and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Then Effie could take Amy and Ian back to District Twelve and turn his house in to a place for people instead of ghosts. A home. She could do that. She'd always been a builder.
He was the only thing who couldn't be fixed.
"Haymitch!"
The sudden shout jolted through him and his head snapped up, toward the ceiling.
"Eff?"
"Haymitch?"
He didn't wait for the rest. He made a beeline for the stairs, heart pounding in his throat. He took the steps three at a time. Still dizzy and half-blind from the bright sun he slipped on his own stocking-feet and slammed his jaws shut on impact.
"Ahh!"
"Haymitch?"
"Coming!" he hollered. Seeing stars he struggled to his feet, clutching his chin. He more crawled than walked up the final steps and set off for the bathroom, only an inch away from running head-first into the door post.
"What's wrong!?" The mirror rattled when he barged inside. He skidded down on to one knee on the wet floor, face to face with Effie sitting upright in the tub. "What is it?" he gasped, clutching the edges. "You in pain? Are the babies coming!? Say something!"
Effie stared at him. His wild hair. His red eyes bulging out of their sockets. She opened her mouth and closed it again.
"The milk," she began.
"Huh?" Haymitch stared at her, unable to follow.
"The bottle of milk. I left it on the counter, I think. I was just wondering if you could put it back in the fridge?"
For a full five seconds Haymitch just gawked at her, mouth open. Like his brain had stopped functioning.
"You kidding me? You're joking, right? You didn't just howl me up here for some milk?"
"If it stays out in this heat it will turn sour. And we're down to the last…"
"Good God, Effie!" Bath towels slid off the hooks when he hauled himself from the floor. "You almost broke my jaw!"
Leaned heavily into the sink he grabbed the toothbrush mug, emptied the lot and held it under the faucet.
"You're priceless, you know that." He filled it to the brim, shaking so badly he must seize his wrist to keep the mug in place. He tipped the icy content down the back of his neck.
"My life's shitty enough as it is," he said and spat into the sink. His chin throbbed with the thick beating of his heart and he ran an index finger along the gums to check for teeth shattered like dinner plates. It sure felt like it. "The last thing I need is you cryin' wolf."
"I wasn't…"
"Well, what the hell was I supposed to think, huh?" he spat and turned around. Water dripped from his hair down the moth-eaten undershirt. "You're just about ready to pop, God damn it! Man, you're not making things easier!"
"OK!" she cried. "OK." Softer now. "I'm sorry."
Silence settled over the room. Deafening after all the shouting. They didn't look at each other. Haymitch leaned back against the sink, face flushed. Arms crossed over his chest. The marble edge cut into his ass and he already regretted the outburst. More and more as his panic pulse slowed back to normal.
Effie didn't say anything either. When he first burst inside she sat straight up by the alarm. In void of anything else to do she laid back again, head against the edge of the tub.
Doing so a grimace crossed her face. It was small, just a passing thing, but the sight off it snuffed whatever remained of Haymitch's anger, like a cigarette butt tossed in a puddle. It made him remember something her pregnancy had taught him.
Whenever Effie took a bath she was struggling.
He crossed over to her and gingerly perched at the edge of the tub, close beside her. His pants and underwear immediately soaked through. She always filled these things up beyond their capacity, especially now.
"They're kicking up a fuss?"
Effie managed a smile and nodded. She lay in a mass of bubbles. Only her belly peaked through, with her hand on top. He resisted the urge to brush it away just so he could replace it with his own. A knee-jerk reaction whenever the babies did something. His way of trying to read their minds, what they needed.
He didn't though. She was butt-naked after all. And yelled at, not five minutes ago.
Instead he ran his hand through a cluster of bubbles. Listened to their quiet pops. Before she got pregnant Effie preferred her baths near-scalding. Seriously, you could boil your potatoes in it. Now it was an abandoned cup of tea, at best.
"Well, you can't blame 'em," he mumbled. "Gettin' pretty cramped up in there and there's two of 'em."
Effie smiled.
"I just hope they vacate soon. Before I look like riper than a banana and…"
An audible gasp cut her in her tracks. Her eyes clenched shut like someone had given her a violent shake. Her hand submerged. Disappear to her left side no doubt. Right under the ribs. Amy and Ian's favorite kicking spot.
Nature was hella unfair if you thought about it. He contributed with a few seconds of intense pleasure and Effie had to do all the work.
"Bad one?" he asked and tried to not sound as distressed and pitiful as he felt.
"No, nothing I can't handle."
"It's 'cause I yelled at you," he said, eyes dark with regret.
"No, because I'm 37 weeks pregnant."
He turned toward the cupboards and got out a soft terry cloth.
"Hang in there, sweetheart." He folded it into a makeshift pillow and placed it behind her head. "Won't last forever and I'll never do this to you again, I swear it."
Effie chuckled and it would have been a relieving sound indeed if it didn't seem to cause her such effort.
"That's very thoughtful of you."
"I'll make you a cup o' broth," he said. "After you've had a good soak and all. And I'll play you something," he added when the idea struck. "It's been a minute."
He rose. His palms were moist from the stress and fright and bathwater. He wiped them on his undershirt and a short, sudden laugh slipped between his lips. A laugh so void of joy it might just as well have been a sob.
"This is why I shouldn't become a father," he said. "Ill-tempered. No attunement. No patience."
He turned for the door, twisted the knob before she could answer.
"I'll let you rest."
Author's note: Oh, dear. Oh, dear. What do you think will happen next? Tell me in the comments! Thanks for reading and for your lovely response! You guys rule!
If we have any Elton John fans here you're sure to know that the title of this chapter "Shot full of holes" is borrowed from his song "I want love." I reckoned it fitted the theme and atmosphere of today's chapter.