𝐌𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

44 | Drowning Out the Voices

"Tom? Tom, come on you need to go inside, I'll run a bath for you and we can go to bed," Y/N said quietly, leaning into the car from the back door. We were home now and her eyes were red and glassy from crying almost the whole way home. If she looked like that, I can only imagine what I look like.

The last thing on my mind is having a bath, nor is it sleeping. I can't imagine I'd be able to sleep, I saw my own father shot dead tonight and it was all because of me; all because I couldn't listen and could take no for an answer.

I let my ego get in the way of The Family.
My family.

I nodded, sitting up from the backseat in which I had been laying across and took her hand as she helped me out of the car. She put her arm around me as we walked inside slowly, her locking the door behind us before escorting me to the bathroom.

She turned the bath taps on as I focused on the gushing water escaping the faucet. For some reason, staring at the water gave me some level of distraction in these crazy times. She poured magnesium salt and essential oil into the bath, swirling it around with her hand and telling me it would help with the aches and pains.

I avoided looking at myself in the mirror, I knew I'd look like the murderer from a horror film. I knew I was sprayed in blood and as much as I usually felt a small boost in power when I had someone else's blood on me, I knew tonight was different.

Tonight wasn't a boxing match. Tonight wasn't a harmless intimidation technique where I slapped someone around for information. Tonight wasn't a bar fight over rival mafias. Tonight marked the death of the great Mafia don, Dominic Holland. My father, Dominic Holland.

Tonight could land me in jail for life.

Normally Y/N would prepare magnesium baths for me after boxing competitions or long days at the golf course with Haz - not nights like this. As much pin as I was in right now both physically and mentally, I can't imagine how she feels right now. She shot her first person tonight, although I wrapped up her loose ends and killed him.

I turned the water off once it got to a sufficient level, staring at my foggy reflection in the water as the steam rose and hit my face. I didn't recognise the man looking back at me. This was a man whose selfish acts got another person killed, who got his father killed.

I cried again, sitting on the floor now and leaning against the edge of the bathtub, my bruised and bloody hands now shaking from the intense flashbacks flooding my memory. Remembering every hit to Daniel's face made the pain in my hand pulsate, every crack of his skull against the concrete now echoing through my head.

Y/N came into the bathroom presumably when she heard me crying, which I'm honestly thankful for. I don't think I would've made smart nor safe decisions being in this much water alone. I think I would've tried to drown myself in a desperate attempt to stop the sounds of beating Daniel playing over and over inside my head.

She carefully pulled my shirt over my head, gently sliding my arms through their holes and tossing it to the corner of the bathroom. Wet blood from my shirt smeared against the white tiles when she threw it and I couldn't stop staring at it. Next she told me to stand up, which took longer than usual considering I felt so weak and feeble. She undid my belt, slipped my jeans down and told me to sit on the edge of the bath as she pulled them off. I felt unstable, I could barely stand without feeling like I'd fall over.

I got in the bath, the room still dead silent as I stared at my hands, the dried blood covering them from fingertips down to my wrists. I couldn't tell which was my blood, Daniels blood or Dad's blood, they were just painted red entirely.

She told me to try and relax, to clean myself up and that she would shower in the guest room before meeting me back in bed.

"Stay with me. Please," I whispered, looking up at the girl I loved in quite possibly my weakest moment. I was an empty shell of a man and she was the only thing keeping me here. If I didn't have her, I would've said my goodbyes to Dad, then shot myself.

She gently got in the bath with me, an act which usually would have been erotic or sensual, yet was now just soothing. Her legs slid over mine and wrapped around my torso to give us more space and she simply just pulled me against her chest.

And I cried. I cried more than I have ever cried in my life and I didn't feel ashamed about it. She just stroked my head and told me everything was going to be alright. I didn't believe her, but it was nice to hear.

She delicately scooped water in her hand and poured it over my back as I continued to lean against her chest, my entire body being supported by her as she ran her hands through my hair. She then tipped water down each of my arms, my chest and kissed the top of my head as I sighed.

"I love you," I whispered, closing my eyes as she gently picked up one of my hands and poured a small amount of body wash on it. It was fragrant, a calming lavender scent to it made me inhale deeply. She circled her fingertips around my knuckles, trying to clean the blood off them without causing me too much pain. My left hand was still broken from Jack's homemade shank but now my right hand was too. Even worse.

She ran her thumb ever so slightly over the grazes, trying to get the blood off of them as I hissed in pain; admittedly the body wash kind of stung. She apologised, still whispering to me as I moved my head to rest on her shoulder, my tears mixing with the water dripping from my hair.

She moved to the other hand, doing the same ritual to clean it before she gently ran her fingers along each of my cuticles. Using the water to try and scrub the dried blood from them, she was mindful that moving my fingers too much caused me immense pain.

"I love you too," she whispered back, carefully lowering my hands into the water to wash the soapy suds off. Moving away from my slightly, she ran her hand along the side of my face, again trying to wash the dried blood from my skin. This I knew was Daniels, not mine, not Dad's.

"How? You must think I'm a monster," I whispered, my voice cracking as I avoided looking her in the eyes. I didn't want her to see me like this, let alone see me completely mutilating a mans body in front of her.

Daniel's disfigured head flashed in my mind, the broken nose, the shattered eye socket, the cracked skull and the split lips. The sounds were what got to me most. When you punch someone in the face it just sounds like a standard thud. But when you're slamming a mans head into the concrete to the point where his brain is exposed, the sound becomes deafening; a sludgy, wet sound slapping against the dirty gravel on the ground.

"I'd never think you were a monster Tom. And even if you were, it wouldn't change the fact that I'm still here with you. I promise," she whispered.

I wonder what the crime scene would have looked like to other police officers. I wonder what would happen to his body when the forensics team got there and the coroners have to investigate his death. I know that our cleaners would do their best to get rid of my evidence and plant fake evidence to link it elsewhere, but they can only do so much.

The coroners would have to fish his broken teeth out from down his throat. They'd be scraping brains off the car park floor and trying to determine which fragments of bone belonged where. His skin would be pale from completely bleeding out. They'd try to pick him up to put him in a body bag and he'd be completely limp, every bone in his fucking body snapped in half. It would have taken them hours to even identify him, to piece him back together again to resemble a human being.

I have never been that violent with anyone.

And as much as I knew that if I hadn't gone to The PlayHaus tonight that Dad would still be alive right now, I don't regret anything I did to Daniel.

In fact, I actually enjoyed it.