Grief
It clamps down when you least expect it—the reminder that you are utterly, irreversibly alone. But your face doesn’t move. Blank is easier. Easier for them to look at. Easier for you to carry.
[Flashback]
Grief
Your breath catches as the blade sinks in. Your father doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t shake, doesn’t blink—as he pulls the knife clean across your brother’s throat. Blood hits the floor. You don’t scream. The sound is stolen before it reaches you.
Denial
You stand motionless, eyes on nothing, spine straight. They watch you for a crack. There isn’t one. You’ve practiced the expression. You’re not breaking today. Maybe not ever.
[Flashback]
Denial
Your brother sobs, shoulders trembling, spit and grief tangled in his voice as he spits the words like acid: “Why didn’t you save them too!? I wish you’d just burn in hell!”
You don’t flinch. You just watch him burn the last thread between you.
Pain
The ache knots deep, but your face is a quiet masterpiece of neutrality. Price nods, arms crossed beside Ghost.
“No family?”
A pause.
“You could come with me over break. My family won’t mind.”
You say thank you. You lie through your teeth. The truth is a splinter you won’t give voice to.
[Flashback]
Pain
Your thumb hovers over the message. The screen blinks with static as you reread it: an unknown number, three words that pierce deeper than the rest.
"Your brother’s in a coma."
You don’t respond. You won’t go. Not after what he said. Not after the way he looked at you like you were the knife.
Dysfunction
Six hours behind the wheel and you’re parked in front of Price’s house. You slide out silently, shoulders squared. Then you see it—Saint Joseph’s, just a block away.
His hospital.
You swallow hard and pretend not to.
[Flashback]
Dysfunction
Your mother is fading fast. Her voice trembles as blood drips through her fingers. Still, she finds the strength to spit venom.
“I hate you! I hate you! Everything would be better if you weren’t alive!”
You grip the edge of the counter. You don’t respond. You never do.
Price gestures toward the stairs, casual and kind in equal measure.
“My family shouldn’t be here for a few hours, so I’ll show you to your rooms.”
He sees something flicker across your face. Doesn’t ask.
In the spare room, you drop your bag and cross to the window.
Across the skyline, lit by amber prison glass and shadows, you see Arkham Asylum.
And you know exactly who’s inside.
Your father. Your dear, deadly, psychopathic father.