The thing that bothered him most was perhaps not the strange feeling that crawled across his skin, a level of depressive that destroyed every bubbling happy thought filling his heart, but instead the simple silence that filled the Shepard estate.
The smell of blood was thick in the air the moment he stepped out of the car, reeling back from the impact of it. His heart beat heavy in his chest. Silence and blood were both suspicious things. But as his numb fingers pulled open the door, things became clear.
Blood painted the entryway, the halls, a slaughterhouse in his own home. His muscles clenched tightly, and he tiptoed through the blood. Such a comforting thing, usually, but he knew the outfit of the the body in the doorway. He knew the smell of Arcade’s blood, he knew the smell of Lottie’s blood, Marlowe’s blood, his father’s blood. It was all sour.
“Dad?”
Dad. Children, children, why did he ever have children? Some part of him locked down deep knew the answer to that, knew it was because he wanted them, loved them, because they were infants who needed care and hands that needed held. Yet, Eleazar couldn’t find it in him to pull at that love, that want to make better, and instead he was left empty, cold.
Something was wrong, yet something was right in the worst kind of ways, and Iskinder would have been so damn proud.
“Booker,” His voice was a throaty coo, a mouthful of fang and the blood of his children. Marlowe’s hair was soft between his fingers, matted wet as it was, and he dropped it with a semblance of care to rest in his daughters arms. “You’re late, thought you would have been home hours ago.”
