Vince wakes to a steady drizzle outside his window. There’s a slight chill that wafts over him in bursts—he feels it through the thin comforter that traps the warmth of his body against the bed. Last night…
“I hate you,” he cries, but he no longer believes that lie. His fists connect with solid flesh over and over again, he punches and bites and scratches. Eric takes it, all of it, all of his anger and pain. He lets Vince pour it out into him.
Last night was a mistake. He should’ve never agreed to this visit or the whiskey. Why can’t he be stronger? In his mind he sees—
Broken skin, bruised flesh, his own battered hands. Suddenly Vince stops fighting…it’s gone. His rage has burned itself out and his chest is hollow now, his heart reduced to ashes. “I can’t,” he sobs, half words formed f
