“What is this?” she asked, as she pulled her hands back and reached for the light switch. The gloom he wore on his face and the blood on his jacket were evidence of his wrongdoings. “Are you bleeding?”

“It’s not mine,” he admitted. “Where are my kids?” he asked, suddenly feeling a sense of urgency to make sure they were okay.

“They’re upstairs, sleeping. They are fine,” Dolce reassured, as she frowned. “What happened?”

“No questions,” he answered, his voice dark. Sadness lived in his eyes. Regret. Anger. Paranoia. It all reflected in his gaze, as he looked at her. He had blood on his hands; and although he had killed before, he had never carried the guilt of a child’s murder. He pulled off his clothes, unable to keep them on his body any longer. The stained hoodie felt like it was hot to the touch, as if it was the one act that had given the devil ownership of his soul. He stalked up the stairs.

“Ethic!” Dolce called to his back, as she picked up the clothes and followed him.

He peeled out of his jeans and stepped right into the shower, turning the handle all the way too hot to scold the guilt away. He placed both hands on the wall in front of him and lowered his head, as he watched the water swirl around the drain at his feet. He was spiraling. His life was like a tunnel, and the only light he saw at the end was the flames that waited to burn him for the mistakes he had made. His chest felt as if it had caved in, and he remembered the last time death had put this crippling feeling on him. It was the day he lost his mother. He was seven years old when she had been murdered, and he had felt the same thing then, that he felt this day. Devastation. Utter loss. He felt Dolce’s hands wrap around his body and he cringed. She just wanted to be near him. He just wanted to cast her away, but he turned around, water rinsing over him, falling into his eyes and on his face as he breathed deeply, his frustrations mounting.

“Fuck do you want from me?” he asked her.