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“Good morning, Daddy.”
Petite hands curl into his shirt, wrinkling the stiff fabric. The source shifts atop him, straddling his waist with clumsy, childish eagerness. Stringy black hair tickles the tip of his nose and cheeks, making his face scrunch up, and his eyes flutter open. The ceiling sags above him, stained yellow from water damage and mold; in his peripheral, he sees the top of a girl’s head resting on the junction of his shoulder, her narrow face tucked partly into his collar. One knee is strung possessively over his hip, and her fingers only clutch harder to his shirt once he stirs.
He’s not bothered by her waking him. It’s always a pleasure to see his dearest daughter.
“Good morning, Eveline.” He replies groggily, voice laden with sleep. It hurts to talk, throat dry and rasping, but the minor discomfort is worth seeing his daughter’s face light up at his response, eyes twinkling with luminous delight. The sight is enough to pull a small, fond smile from him—they spend so much time together, yet she soaks up every ounce of affection as though she’s never received it before, like it might be the last.
It’s a little absurd in that way. She’s his daughter; she should know that he loves her very much. Even now, he can hardly comprehend that she’s his.
Slowly, he props himself on his elbows to look down at Eveline, who straightens in turn, stiffening under his gaze like she’s been caught in mischief.
He lifts a hand to placatingly smooth her hair back, feeling dampness at the roots. “Did you sleep well?”
She softens immediately, like the cat who got the cream. “I did. I dreamt about all the stuff we’d do today.”
“Is that so?” He murmurs, using his thumb to brush a stray hair from her cheek; it sticks stubbornly to his skin, leaving a dark streak of spores against his knuckle that he doesn’t think twice about. “Got a whole schedule planned?”
Eveline nods with jubilant, girlish enthusiasm. “But first, we’re going to have breakfast with Mawmaw and Pawpaw.” Her nose then wrinkles briefly, and she adds, almost as an afterthought: “And Uncle Lucas.”
He certainly can’t fault her lackluster expression; Lucas is…well, ‘interesting’ might be the only nice way he can put it. He’s never been particularly fond of him, off-putting and rude as he is; if not for his in-laws, he’d prefer not interacting with him at all. He’ll poke and prod at his daughter just to get a reaction—he’d poke and prod at him too, rattling off nonsensical questions, jeers, and jabs. It drives him up the wall; who does he think he is to mess with his little girl? He’d take the man’s fingers and tongue if he could. Eveline likes seeing him get a little riled up; something about devotion excites her, especially if it’s from him. It’s almost as though it’s a curious, novel thing, though he can’t fathom why. It’s only right that he defends her. She’s his daughter.
As though sending his growing displeasure, he hears her giggle faintly, “It’s alright, Daddy. Family hurts each other sometimes,”
He huffs, but his irritation immediately cools to a simmer at her words. She’s right, of course. Family is tough. It takes effort to make things work.
Still, he thinks Lucas could be putting in a lot more work.
“Well,” He says, shifting carefully underneath her, “We'd better not keep your Grandma waiting. You know how fussy she gets if supper sits too long.”
The phrasing sits strangely on his tongue, foreign, but he doesn’t dwell on it for long. The way Eveline beams wipes any traces of unease from his mind.
His hands move to her wrists, silently urging her off. Her face screws up tight when he does, clearly contemplating whether she’d make him carry her downstairs, before finally relenting, sliding from atop him with fluid ease. He follows soon after, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
It takes a surprising amount of strength to drag himself to his feet. His left leg aches with the effort, pain pulsing down the muscle in dull throbs. His jaw clenches, a quiet hiss seeping through his teeth.
Fuck, that hurts. He doesn’t remember injuring his leg. When did he—?
He rifles through his brain for the memory, but it drifts apart before he can fully grasp it, dissolving like chalk in the rain until there’s only the faint impression of where it once was. He can feel the beginnings of a migraine sparking behind his eyes, a steady stream of stop, stop, stop underlining his thoughts.
In a blink, Eveline’s beside him, wrapping her small fingers around his own.
“You made Pawpaw hurt you before,” She supplies easily, flashing Ethan a proud grin. “But don’t worry, I fixed you!”
The pain fades with her touch, a dimming phantom ache, and he finds himself nodding along.
How could he forget? It feels like a lifetime ago that he was bad—a bad husband and a bad father. He deserved the punishment he got then; how lucky he is to have a daughter so well behaved and forgiving.
He squeezes her hand back affectionately. “Yes, you did.”
Eveline nods like it’s obvious, but subtly preens at the attention nonetheless, insistently tugging him toward the door.
They greet the familiar gloom of the hall together. The floorboards sag with moisture, and the flowery wallpaper crinkles and curls where the dampness seeps through, sweating out from the plaster in fat droplets. Large streaks of mildew creep down from the trim, blooming in shades of black and brown. Pale light barely manages to filter through one of the windows, its rickety pane crooked, and the glass opaque with a thick layer of grime.
Eveline walks half a step ahead, but clings to him all the while, tacky fingers never leaving his. He welcomes the contact. There are some days—his worst days—where she doesn’t feel real; the touch, however minor, provides clarity, telling him that she’s not just a specter haunting his imagination. She’s real, embodied, and solid.
She pauses when they get to the top of the stairs, squinting down into the pooling murk.
“Pawpaw and Mawmaw’s already up,” She whispers, as though she were sharing a juicy secret. “They’ve been up all night,”
“That so?” He replies, indulgent of her idle prattle. He’s not surprised to know they’re already awake; the Bakers are a hard-working bunch, tenacious too. They never stop for anything, not even when he begged and pleaded until his throat was hoarse—please no no–where-is-she?
He blinks, and it’s gone. It didn’t matter to begin with.
He even admires their resolve. It’s not too different from his own; if anything, they’re quite similar, peas in a pod. Like them, he’d do anything for his family, maim whoever, so it’s only fitting they’re all together. Besides, it’s surprisingly nice having a big family. The idea of having a small, but close unit always endeared him, but there’s something cozy about having a larger group. The world is vast, scary, and ruthless, but having so many people makes it a little more bearable.
They make their descent down the stairs. Each step protests against his weight, the rotting wood groaning and splintering under his feet. The grain gives with the applied pressure, spongy and sticky. He braces himself against the banister, and even that is soft beneath his palm, dark spots of decay spotting the paint. Eveline fares better, hopping down each step in complete silence. Her movements are lightweight and quick, performed with elegant, if slightly wobbly, precision. The stairs don’t creak beneath her, but that’s expected; she must weigh so little compared to him.
The humidity spikes when they reach the ground floor, a tangy-sweet odor of spoiled fruits and meat souring the air. The smell settles thick and uncomfortable on the back of his tongue, hitting him like a wall—it’s as repulsive as it is pungent. Part of him wants to recoil, alarm bells—run, run, run—ringing in his ears, but he can’t identify any danger.
He lets out a shallow breath, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. It’s normal, isn't it? There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just
Family.
Voices drift from the kitchen: Jack’s low, biting drawl, followed by Marguerite’s off-key, out-of-tune humming of some mangled country song.
“See?” Eveline beams at him. “Told you so,”
He returns her smile. Of course she did; she’s very smart for her age.
She squeezes his hand before finally slipping from him, darting into the dining room with a delighted, “Mawmaw! Pawpaw!” He hears utensils clatter at her entry, hushed words of greeting spoken between them, and he follows soon after.
He reminds himself: there’s nothing to be afraid of.
The bustle pauses when Ethan enters, and Jack, seated at the head of the table, slowly settles his eyes on him. For a moment, his pale eyes seem unfocused, but the expression is gone before he can ponder it, wiped away by a large grin.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” The older man drawls, “It’s ‘bout time you got up, boy.”
The light-hearted chiding dusts his face pink, but he doesn’t get a chance to respond before Marguerite chimes in.
“Don’t you be too hard on him, Jack,” She scolds, gently swatting him with her ladle, pot propped against her hip. “He’s been running ‘round like a chicken with its head cut off. He needed the rest.” Her eyes slide toward Ethan as she says it, smiling thinly, lips stretched too tightly over her teeth. Something chitinous glitters at the back of her soft palate, hundreds of little legs skittering over her tongue.
“Well, rest’s over now,” Jack grunts, wiping his knife on a rag that once was white. “C’mere and sit yourself down.”
Eveline’s already seated, looking at him expectantly.
He does not hesitate to sit beside her.
The chair sags a bit, shoddy and frail, but it holds well enough. The second he’s settled, she immediately shuffles closer, scooting her chair until it’s right up against his. She leans insistently into his arm as though she fears he’ll disintegrate, peeking up at him through her lashes.
He gives her a reassuring pat on the back. She should know that he wouldn’t just disappear.
“Ain’t that precious?” Lucas snickers, slouched low in his chair with outstretched legs. “Real tight on that leash, ain’t you, ‘Daddy’?”
Ethan straightens, familiar animosity rearing its ugly head. He had been hoping to ignore Lucas, but he should’ve known his wish would be for naught. Though maybe the other man’s snide blabber mouth will give him a front row seat to Jack taking his other hand.
After all, Ethan’s not on any leash. He’s here because he loves his daughter.
Eveline shoots Lucas a scathing look, mouth twitching into a frown. He wilts, but not by much.
“What?” Lucas heckles, all teeth and gums. “Just sayin’, y’all real cozy this morning. Must say, I’m real disappointed in you, Winters. I liked you better when you were screamin’,”
Eveline’s frown sets deeper, twisting into a scowl. Her eyes rake over Lucas like she’s inspecting a wriggling bug on the floor. She tilts her head imperceptibly, briefly looking back at Ethan.
“Daddy,” She says, a teasing, almost cruel lilt in her tone. She idly fidgets with her spoon, quietly scraping it on the glass bowl. “Let's play with Uncle Lucas tomorrow.”
“C’mon now, Evie,” Lucas starts, raising his hands in mock surrender, “You know I was just kiddin’! Just pallin’ around, weren’t we, Ethan?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Ethan responds on autopilot, gaze trained entirely on his Eveline. He doesn’t know exactly what ‘playing’ entails, but anything for his daughter.
He’s dimly aware of Lucas grumbling something that sounds suspiciously like ‘aw hell’, but he doesn’t give it much attention. He should be excited to spend time with his darling daughter.
Jack loudly clears his throat.
“Enough bickerin', boys,” He snorts, “Food’s gettin’ cold.”
Marguerite sets the pot down with a hard clank against the table. Steam swirls in thin, lazy ribbons from its open mouth, flickering in the yellow light. It smells rotten—the matter inside, whether it was meat, vegetables, or a mix of both, has softened into a congealed concoction of grey mush and pulp. The contents are thick as spoiled custard, and the few pieces that haven’t been melted to paste, raw chunks of blubbery fat, have roaches crammed in the folds, carapaces softened to taffy from the moist heat.
“Smells good, don’t it?” Marguerite chirps, wiping her hands on the front of her long skirt.
The stench is cloying and acrid, burning his nostrils.
Across from him, Lucas grins.
“Man, Ma,” He whistles, leaning forward to peer into the pot. “You really outdid yourself this time. Smells like somethin’ crawled in there and died twice.”
Marguerite clicks her tongue sharply, slamming her free hand on the table so hard it trembles, “You hush that mouth, boy! Ain’t nobody asked for your opinion.”
For a moment, her visage is one of pure anger, distorted with sudden, unsightly vitriol before smoothing itself back into a pleasant calm.
“Made it fresh this mornin’.” She continues, “One of my best.”
Ethan’s stomach churns, something ticklish fluttering in his insides, but it’s difficult to parse the origin. If it’s disgust, then it feels unwarranted; Marguerite’s always been proud of her cooking. It feels a little like hunger—genuine, raw hunger. They must have slept in very late this morning. He cannot recall the last time he ate. Yesterday, maybe, or perhaps the day before.
His appetite simply hadn't been there, then. He must’ve been stressed, but he can't place why. He has everything he’s ever wanted: a loving family and child. What does he have to stress over—?
The ladle plunged into the pot with a wet, sucking sound. Marguerite scoops a hearty portion, jaundiced tissue fibers and broth trailing from the rim, and slops it into his bowl with a dull thump.
“There, eat up now.” She urges, already scooping up another chunk to toss in Jack’s bowl and so forth. “It’s good for you.”
It’s repugnant.
He’s going to eat all of it.
He stabs the stew with his spoon, its viscous contents reluctantly parting. Something tough crunches beneath the silverware, unrecognizable in the pomace.
It’s rude to reject a home-cooked meal.
He shovels a chunk of soft meat into his mouth before he can think twice, coating his tongue in a greasy film.
Jack grunts approvingly, picking at his own bowl. “It’s good to see a city boy with some proper taste.”
Lucas lets out a stifled laugh, absently stirring the contents of his bowl until it’s a fine colorless paste, but doesn’t comment further, which Ethan considers something of a miracle. He doesn’t know what’s so funny, but Lucas is amused by lots of odd things.
It takes effort to choke down the first, second, third bite, but it gets easier each time, even a little palatable. He hadn’t realized he was starving.
Despite food being laid out in front of her, Eveline doesn’t even attempt to eat it. Instead, she spends time meticulously rearranging the meat into various shapes—a triangle, a square, a lopsided attempt at what he thinks is a smiley face. She really shouldn’t be playing with her food, but he doesn’t have the heart to scold her; the smile gracing her features tells him she’s more than amused.
“After breakfast,” She announces to no one in particular, still poking at her bowl. “Daddy’s gonna play with me.”
It’s the first time he’s hearing it, but he finds himself nodding along regardless, as though they had planned it from the start.
Anything she says goes. He’s content to make it happen.