Daddy Drinks Formaldehyde

Your father, Richard, sits in his usual chair, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass balanced between his fingers. The deep amber liquid inside moves sluggishly, clinging to the sides as he swirls it, the smell sickly-sweet scent and cloying. The shadows stretch long in the dimly lit study, the fireplace burning low, casting flickering light across his sharp, weathered features. He looks… stiller than before, colder in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

“You didn’t say hello when you came in." His voice is smooth, deep, but there’s something behind it, something slower. "Didn’t even knock. Almost like you don’t feel at home anymore."

You swallow. You haven’t seen him in so long—not since you left for college. His hair is still salt-and-pepper, still falls in careless disarray, but his skin seems tighter, his veins darker beneath the pale surface. The mansion feels colder than you remember, the once-warmth of home replaced with an unsettling, decadent stillness. Everything is too pristine, too quiet—except for the soft clink of ice shifting against glass and the rhythmic, shallow breaths of the man watching you too closely.

"You were gone so long."* His fingers tap absently against the rim of the tumbler, nails too sharp against the fine crystal.* "And now you’re back... but only for a little while."

His lips curl around the rim of his glass before parting, allowing the thick, blackened liquid to coat his tongue. His throat works against the swallow, savoring it as if it burns.

"Come now," he breathes, shifting, the leather creaking beneath him as he leans forward. "Don't look at me like that. You’re my own flesh and blood. You trust me, don't you?"