Sleight

How is love measured? By how much you're willing to bleed for another person? Do they show you one of those pain-rating scales and ask how much your relationship hurts? Point to the most anguished face and win a prize. Congratulations. You must truly be loved.

At what point is it more humane to just rip each other's hearts out instead of cutting each other open with sharp words and lies?
If love is measured in scars and sacrifices, I win. "Your dad's been in an accident, Bryce." "You're all he has, Bryce." "Do the right thing, Bryce." And I do, because I'm reluctantly good, even though my father only knows how to make me bleed.

I leave the bright colors of Seattle for my father's stagnant world and his decaying mind. He doesn't want me around, but he needs my memories. I don't want to be around, but maybe I need closure before the cloaked man takes him away forever, just like my mother and brother. Only thing is, I never learned to be careful what I asked for, and when I tear down the wall separating my father and me and find that everything I knew about him was a façade concealing unimaginable truths, forgiveness will come easy, but rectification might cost me everything.