You're supposed to hate him now.

It's easy to hate him, and what he did to you. What he made of you—you don't dare admit it. It would be even more pathetic to say it, but perhaps it already makes you pathetic if you're just thinking it—

The alcohol loosens the screws of your inhibitions, things that which are typically perfectly oiled, perfectly functioning wheels. Your name is Leland, and you are slumped over the counter of a bar, and you've had more than a drink or two.

So, only in these circumstances, you allow yourselves to entertain alternative paths. Maybe not the gay marriage one, that'd go too far… but futures concerning the plan, yes. You've been certain of the plan as soon as that pain in your gut was just as certain; the pain that had been slowly building up since he didn't show up at the funeral. It'd been slowly sinking into your skin, deeper and deeper, like those ships he loved so much—sinking, until cemented, until his wife uttered those final words, and he had tearfully declared in private that he did not need anyone aside from her and their children. Thus, with no more tiptoeing around it, he was certain: he did not need you.

You ask for another beer. The bartender starts to shake his head until you glare at him. The bottle is in your hands, and you sigh against the rim, and drunkenly mutter something about clams.

Your eldest son is nine years old. He's smart, dedicated, and strong. He will be the perfect prince. The plan will succeed.

A sudden throb in your heart shifts the future, for a moment, letting you imagine—a lessened harshness in your parenting. If you had not pushed so hard for your son to be allowed to sit in on diplomatic meetings to take notes.

You think about allowing a sort of softness—that sort of softness that Jackie had brought into your life. If that were to be you, who were giving that—then you'd be thinking of your other sons too. The stupid one and the shrunken one. Jackie would've loved them as much as the other, without a care for their faults, because they would be his own.

You would be having summer vacations by the lake, perhaps accompanied Jack's family. Hunting and fishing trips. Log cabins. Barbecues. Happiness.

…Wives.

No, it wouldn't be the same. You have families now. It won't be the same. That's why there's the plan, a longterm plan set in motion the very moment you laid your hands on that portrait and cursed your family with the consequence.

That is why you cannot let your children live a normal life, because they exist to serve a purpose, and that purpose is to you. That purpose is to make him understand your pain, the wound he did on your pride, and all the hidden weak spots on your heart are because of him—

You cannot be a normal family because you are not a normal family. But, in your drunken stupor, you have thought about being a normal family—only to confirm that is something you cannot be.

What if I changed, you thought foolishly. What if I changed so I could have him again?

You shove your heart down your throat, commanding it to stay put in its ribcage armor. It's not happening, buddy.

Can't I just imagine, then? asked the heart.

Why would you ever want to do that?

Because I miss him.

You saw him just the other day.

I miss how we used to be. He only looks at her, now. I miss when he looked at me.

That's stupid.

Well, it's the truth.

The truth is stupid.

You're drunk enough to indulge in foolishness.

(You do not cry. A man does not cry.)

So guys that Squeenix E3 presentation sure was uh

A thing, huh?😂