• • • 一𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 . . . クン アア•

『 津• O N E 』

He dreamed of her, walking down the churchʼs aisle with a long white dress, hugging each and exquisite part of her body where he had felt high in raptures, not in a casket that had made his heart frosted, tears on the corners of his eyes as he faltered with apologies of conflict.

“Fix her!” Aguero choked out, feverish feelings of turbulent rhapsodies of nightmares, his voice banging throughout the room as he cried.

Eduan starved for his childʼs burning tears, pleading for help, for power. Intense howls and strong weeps slipped from Agueroʼs mouth as he watched. The urge to help his son that struggled to breathe worked up. “No,” he implied, uncanny and conflicting his thoughts with the words to keep his sonʼs ecstasy from breaking once more.

“Because you don't want to?” Aguero asked quiescently. He glanced up at the ceiling, deep blue eyes flickered with guilt as he pursed his mouth shut. “Or is it because you can't?”

“Because she'll break again,” Eduan enunciated, frenzied eyes met his sonʼs soundless and dull ones, red from all the crying that once were filled with euphoria. “And then you'll come back here, into the house,”

..... He shut his mouth for a second, objecting his poor childʼs request as he observed the blood that reeked through the room, the girl that breathed fast and shallow, almost half of blood lost from the fight. “Begging for me to fix something that did not need to be fixed.”

“Ah...” Aguero bitterly turned his head away with mourn laced into his voice disbelieving the words of his father. “Because you don't want to?”

Eduan vexed, swallowing his own words as he chided into a disagreement. “No.” His voice was unemotional, yet laced with apathetic emperical graved judgment.