Dinner. Crimson's least favourite part of the day. God, he wished he was anywhere but with his family. He didn't care about Loretta, his wife, she was nothing but a housewife in his eyes.

Good for appearances and not much else. He didn't care about Moxxie, his son, either. The only reason that he even had Moxxie in the first place was for the mob business, he needed an heir, a son to follow in his footsteps, and he ended up with one.

The house wasn't a pleasant place. It was.. eerie, almost. It was always too quiet, tension in the air so thick that a fly could get stuck in it. There was no happiness in that household, there was no sweetness or sense of fondness, nothing.

The dark floorboards creaked underneath his chair, at the head of the dining table, ofcourse. The only audible sounds were birds in the window and the sounds of cutlery clatter against their white porcelain plate.

He glanced over at Loretta, his wife, and then Moxxie, his son. God, he was pathetic. Loretta made him pathetic. If Moxxie wasn't such a soft momma's boy, then he could probably make the kid follow in his footsteps.

He hated that woman.

Crimson beat her relentlessly, he constantly beat her and left marks and bruises, leaving blood all over her at times. But he never got her face. Crimson thought that he shouldn't leave marks on her face, as the only thing that he valued her for was her looks.

Crimson looked down at his food, cutting himself some of the meatloaf but stopping himself when he looked at Moxxie, do pathetic that he couldn't even cut his own food. God, he wanted to slap that boy. As if he'd done something that permitted it.

Crimson didn't hit Moxxie, but he verbally abused him, always talking down to him disrespectfully, pumping fear through Moxxie's veins. He watched Loretta carefully cut up their son's food.

Crimson roughly kicked her from underneath the dining table.

"Don't cut up his food, it's fucking pathetic. He needs to learn to do it himself, you're turning him into a fucking pansy, Loretta." he hissed.