#that's cold

Ray pinched his forearms until they bled, using the pain and feel of trickling blood to ground him just enough to understand Cherine. She spoke and finally, finally, finally–Ray understood something she said. “Do you really think that I’ll let you go out in the wild, Brom? With the tasks you’ve already been given?”

Brom spoke to Cherine like she was an irrational teenager. That is to say, he spoke to her with annoyance and a slight snippiness. Ray’s skin crawled, and he sunk his nails deeper into his flesh. “I kept your secrets from my own children. Which–I’m sure to your delight–made them hate me. What makes you think I’m going to blab to them or anyone else now?”

“We don’t hate you.” Ray wasn’t sure if he had said the words out loud or in his heart, but his father looked towards him. Cherine paused in her steps, her face shadowed and angled away from Ray’s prying eyes. 

“Your sister does.”

“She doesn’t–”

“She poisoned me, Ray. And probably would have danced on my grave if given the chance. Though, I can’t blame her…” Brom’s voice softened, and Ray nearly cried out that they could fix it. Obviously, Verity hadn’t understood that their father was in the clutches of a monster. Things could change. People could forgive. Families didn’t have to remain broken. Brom’s golden eyes met Ray’s gold-tinted ones. Ray saw pity reflected in his irises, darkening the normally lighter color. Sorrow. His arms screaming in pain, as he dug his nails deeper and deeper into his flesh, Ray braced himself for an apology, one that he would force his father to repeat later. Finally, Brom spoke. “I’ve grown to hate her too.”

At Brom’s cruel words, the room stilled silent. Junichiro, who had been spending his time glowering at Ray, started to look torn. Torn at what, Ray wasn’t sure. Maybe he was beginning to pity Ray, the way Ray was beginning to pity Junichiro. Junichiro might be in a monster’s den, but at least his brother made it clear and obvious to anyone who was or was not paying attention that he was loved and wanted. 

And Brom confessed–at what may very well be his last opportunity to speak to his child–that he hated his daughter. His parting words. Hatred. Not sorrow or remorse. Hatred.