Page 54 of Exile

"You can't go. Don't go. He did what?! I know you said that. The boy is an imposter. They are watching. Are you watching? Grey is dead. He killed him."

I slump against the doorframe, eyes following his path. He hasn't noticed me yet, in full conversation with himself.

"Dad," I say firmly. "Go to bed."

He stops abruptly, spinning to face me. My eyebrow lifts at the knife in his hand. No surprise where I developed my kink from. I guess it's true that you inherit kinks from your parents.

"What are you doing here?" he snaps in a low, husky voice. "Our son is upstairs."

"I'm your son," I remind him, recognizing he's in an episode. "It's me—Grey."

Dad laughs maniacally, waving the knife around carelessly. "I see how it is." His pewter eyes look at me unfocused. "You think you can fool me."

Fuck me. I just want to go back to bed. I have to be up at dawn for another shift.

"Dad—go to bed," I repeat. "You need sleep."

The doctors warned us that his drinking and lack of sleep could make his symptoms difficult to manage. For a while there, he was doing well. But gradually after Mom left, he stopped caring too. I guess I get my poor sleeping habits from him as well.

When his body stiffens like a statue, I straighten up. It's the same cycle as usual. We argue, he gets defensive and physical, then retreats. I can read him like a book.

"You can't have her, Brent. Anne ismywife!"

"You're right," I agree, holding my hands up in an act of resignation. "I'll leave and never come back. She's all yours."

This is the equivalent to a movie I've watched a hundred times. Same lines, same scenes. I've got my act down to a fine art.

Panting, Dad relaxes slightly, seemingly satisfied. I take a few steps forward as his head dips, pain on his face.

"Come on, big man. Let's get you up to your bed to Anne."

I place a hand on his bare shoulder, pleased that at least he's got shorts on today. He's calming down, and my bed is singing my name in sweet, melodic tunes like a siren.

As I swivel sideways to make room for him to pass, I feel him tense under my hand.

Oh, no. That's not the usual reaction.

Before I can turn back, I spot the knife swinging around toward me. I just manage to lunge out of the way into the sink, Dad stumbling off balance.

"Oh, come on," I groan. "Bed—now."

He catches his footing, spinning to face me. His eyes are wild again, and I'm pretty sure life is having a laugh at my expense. You want to go to bed? Ha. Too bad.

"You can't have her!" He yells in full battle cry mode, moving at an alarming speed.

"Fucking hell," I grumble, dodging again. "Just go for a run then. You have shorts on."

Apparently, my words fall on deaf ears. He continues to launch himself at me with a stream of jumbled words and threats. I'm going to have to subdue him before one of the neighbors calls the cops for noise disturbance. It wouldn't be the first time they have paid us a visit. And part of me feels a tiny bit guilty at the thought—having the house to myself to get sleep sounds pretty fucking awesome.

But I'm responsible for this man, even if he is swinging a knife at my face.

"That's enough," I grunt, grabbing his wrist and halting the blade in mid-air. "I'm getting annoyed now."

I expect more fast spoken sentences but instead he lets out a blood-curdling yell. My ears ring as I squeeze my eyes shut. Who knew he had a set of lungs on him?

"Oof."

The wind is knocked out of me when a fist connects with my stomach. I guess that's what I get for closing my eyes.