#blips

"Say it, Michael."

Tears covered his face, burning and uncomfortable. His eyes didn't leave the ground.

"But–"

He silenced as a hand came to rest on his shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise, before it relaxed. A warning.

"Say it."

The stuttered inhale that rattled from his lungs was pathetic. He was pathetic.

"...I w-wanted to kill him."

A hand on his cheek. This touch was meant to be comforting; Father never went for the face, at least not on purpose.

It kind of was. The feeling of his own shoulders relaxing made Michael feel sick.

"And?"

"I'm... glad he's dead?" This was a question. He couldn't remember what William had asked for; the last few hours were a haze. Hours? Had it been that long?

Maybe he was misremembering.

Father smiled, so he must have done something right. It was a sick, sadistic grin that made Michael's skin crawl.

Right now, though, it was a promise of safety, at least for a moment.

"Look in the mirror, Michael."

Michael's chin rose. His eyes were red, his face blotchy. The blood on his lip started to scab where he'd bitten it, and he had to sniff to stop his nose from running.

Disgusting.

"What do you see?"

"A murderer."

William's smile finally reached his eyes. "Good."

He pushed Michael's hair back over his ears, and the boy fought the urge to squirm. He looked a lot more like his father with his hair out of the way.

"Look at me."

Michael did. A lifeless grey bore into him, the sparkle of amusement displaying the most joy he'd seen from his father in months.

Michael's eyes were blue. William said that they would fade, in time.

"Did you like to make your brother cry?"

"Yes."

A mantra, recited. The words were automatic.

Father's smile softened. This wasn't taunting; it was genuine happiness. This was William's only affection.

He paused before the next question. It was as if he was savoring the moment.

William's voice was quieter when he spoke again.

"Do you like to hurt people, Michael?"

Hesitation.

He couldn't wait too long, or he would be punished. Michael didn't need long, though; it was fine. He would just need to pretend he was answering something else.

"...Yes."

The arms that wrapped around Michael made him feel sick, as his father leaned down for a hug. He smelled like cigarettes and scotch and burnt metal. Michael thought he heard his father say good, but he wasn't sure. His head was swimming.

Michael's eyes flicked back to his reflection. He stared at himself from over his father's shoulder.

He was tall for his age, but William's figure dwarfed him. He looked small and fragile; a twisted creature made of paper and glass.