“The only thing we ever get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give enough of is love.”

“… Why are you saying this now?”

“Simple: I’m going to give you all the love you couldn’t be bothered to give me - in my own way.”

And then, warmth.

How could something so cold feel so warm? My stomach felt as though it had been brushed up against a radiator, yet at the same time its numb with feeling. I can’t feel, I can’t see clearly, and the ringing in my ear is a drowning loud - what is happening to me?

How did it even get to this?

I was walking back from another ordinary day, the rain accompanying my every step. I had forgotten my umbrella, so I was in a hurry to make it to my car. I open the door and sat inside - shelter, at last - then revved the engine and turned on the lights.

“Don’t. Move.”

My body locked up almost instantly. A voice whispered in my ear, a knife to my neck and a gun to my side. I couldn’t even turn around, but I recognised that voice clear as day; I raised it for 19 years.

“… Kenny?”

“Shut up; don’t even think about that name. It’s been dead to you for a long, long time; treat it no differently now. Now, drive.”

We drove in murderous silence. The shade of trees stretched out and over my car over and over again as we went past old playgrounds and closed ice cream shops, the scent of damp moss so strong it made its way into the car. Twigs that we once used to play 3 Musketeers snapped irrelevantly under the pressure of the car, under the pressure of my fear. It was the longest car ride.

As I fumbled with the keys, he seemed to relax his grip on the knife to my neck. I wanted to move - jolt back and elbow him in the face and run for the hills - but he must’ve sensed my desperate hope as he cut into my neck, fresh blood ruining its stainless steel, and laughed to himself.

This really wasn’t Kenny.

Then again, how should I know? I only raised him for 19 years.

We walked down to the basement, where he finally let go of my neck and kicked me to the floor. He sat down on a certain white chair; it was the most ironic scenario imaginable.

“You remember this chair, don’t you, ‘father’?”

“…”

“I’m sure you do; you’d always be sat on it, watching me from the basement door playing with the neighbours. You’d always be sat on it, reprimanding me for the silliest mistakes. You’d always be sat on it, hitting me with your god-forsaken belt whenever you had too much to drink.”

“L-Listen, I—“

“**SHUT UP**. I’ve done enough listening, praying, begging, binding my time - **I’VE DONE ENOGUH OF IT,” **I** **couldn’t help but flinch at his outburst, which only seemed to make him laugh even more.

He leaned back into the white, weathered chair, and sighed, the stench of alcohol wafting from his lips. Now that I looked closer at him, he could pass as homeless; ragged clothes, shoes with holes like Swiss cheese, and a sense of strained desperation.

“You know,” he began again, freakishly casual, “I contemplated what to do to you on the drive here. Should I whip you black and blue like you always threatened to do? Should I just hurl this knife and wedge it right in between your eyes?”

“… Please, let’s just not do this at all,” the words seemed to clog in my throat. Was this fear? Why was I so afraid of my own son? Though you can hardly call him that now, he’s still the boy I raised for all those years.

Suddenly - hope. Could I out-pace him? The tool box is on the shelf to the right of me, if I rolled towards it in a dash, could I get to it before he—

“Just what the fuck are you thinking?”

The reality of the situation crashed down on me with that sentence. “W-What do you mean-“

“Are you being for real? That sickening face you do when you think you might have a shot at the lottery, or when you find a wallet on the floor — are you being for fucking real?”

He got up in a rage, the chair flying behind him and crashing into the shelves. Boxes moved by the commotion fell down, their contents spilling onto the floor like rain, and among them I saw something - a picture frame.

He must’ve seen it too. He walked over to it, his back completely turned to me, and picked it up.

_This is my chance, _my brain would say_, you can do this if you dash for it now._

__

__

Yet my legs wouldn’t move.

He turned back around and I cursed myself for missing that window of opportunity. He was studying that picture really intently, as if he didn’t recognise something in it.

“… this was that day, wasn’t it.”

“After the funeral… the picture we took…”

“…”

He melted onto the floor like ice cream left in the sun, like mud washed away by rain. He got onto his knees, his face in his hands, and seemed to cry.

“Why am I doing this… she wouldn’t have wanted this…”

Again, another chance.

But this time, before I could do anything, he yelled out in an animalistic shriek, before stabbing himself in the leg with frightening intensity.

“…No. I can’t think like that.”

He slowly inched closer to me, dragging his foot scross the ground, a contain of my own blood following him; in front of him.

I backed away - genuine, instinctual fear gripping control of my body - until I hit a wall; nowhere left to run.

He looked upon me, a piteous look projecting like a programmed facial expression, and then sighed.

“The only thing we ever get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give enough of is love.”

“… Why are you saying this now?”

“Simple: I’m going to give you all the love you couldn’t be bothered to give me - in my own way.”

And then, warmth.

How could something so cold feel so warm? My stomach felt as though it had been brushed up against a radiator, yet at the same time its numb with feeling. I can’t feel, I can’t see clearly, and the ringing in my ear is a drowning loud - what is happening to me?

“Now, say hello to Mother for me. I’ll be right behind you.”