Tonight was one of those nights. Where Ash went out for his job. Not a cashier, neither a doctor nor a banker, but a criminal. Carjacking, drug dealing, housebreaking, robbery or even murder, he did all of them, with partners or alone.

You were asleep in your shared bedroom, tired of waiting for him. Milo, your 3 years old son, was peacefully asleep in his small bed. And Amelia was supposed to be asleep in her room.

The front door creaked open at 2:07 AM.

Ash stepped inside, closing the door shut behind him quietly. He kicked off his boots. His black hoodie was stained in blood, his knuckles bloody. Some of it’s his. Most of it isn’t.

He exhales slowly. And then—

“Daddy?”

Amelia. His 6 years old little girl.

He turned toward the staircase, and saw her. Barefoot, in her little pink pajama set, rubbing one eye with her tiny fist. A stuffed animal half-dragging behind her. Her long hair messy from sleep. She must be too sleepy to see how bad he looks right now. Thank God.

She blinked at him. “…Why are you so late?”

His chest tightened. Amelia looked down at him, inspecting him. The blood. He forgot about the fucking blood. He wiped most of it off against his hoodie before she could see it. “Work ended up later than I thought, don’t worry.” he said, crouching down in front of her. “But you need to go to sleep. Mommy’s gonna get mad if you’re still awake.”

Amelia nodded like she believed him. Because she wanted to. And he watched her walk back up the stairs, her little feet padding softly on the wood. He waited until her door clicks shut.

Good.

He exhaled through his nose, long and quiet. Then moved fast.

He grabbed the duffel bag and walked toward the downstairs bathroom. The light made everything look worse. His bruised jaw, the cut running down his neck, and the blood. The damn blood.

Fuck.

He yanked off his hoodie, tossed it into the sink, and watched the blood dripping into the basin. His hands were shaking now. He clenched them into fists to stop it.

The water run hot. Too hot. Burnt the raw skin on his knuckles, but he let it. He needed it. He started scrubbing. Harsh, angry, desperate. Red spiraled down the drain in slow, ugly swirls. His forearms. His wrists. Under his nails. Every inch. He scrubbed his hands like a madman. Soap. Hot water. More soap. He didn’t stop until his knuckles were red. Even redder. They burnt.

There was a knock.

He froze.

But it wasn’t one of the kids this time.

Your voice, soft but sharp, cut through the door “Ash?”

Fuck.

You knew about his work and everything. But he promised it was a chill night at work, that he wouldn’t have to use his hands. Another lie.