He was coming. Footsteps down the hall.
And, of course, he was alone. Nobody else inhabitated this old house - his wife had disappeared, a long time ago now. He can't blame her, it's impossible to blame her, after that - after their son (their son, their child, their baby) was born, she had retreated into herself.
Of course their son chased her, raged at her, destroyed her. Mothers hating their children is meant to be post-natal depression, but does that count if the child is goading her, forcing her to hate?
She has been gone for a while now. The boy is six, and he is coming, dragging something down the corridor - something thick, and heavy.
He is a grown man, surely he should defend himself - but this is his son, large brown eyes looking at him, brown eyes that look like his mother's. Even if his son is raising a weapon against him, even if his son is hitting, kicking, biting, screaming that he hates him.
He never knew his father; looking at his son, he wonders if this is what the man was like, if these kind of things skip a generation, if the violent genes will out.
His son will grow up, he will use people, he will destroy them, just as he is destroying his parents. Just as he destroyed his sisters (where are they? Running on streets in a foreign city).
The door opens - his eyes are hooded, dark. The weapon is a ruler, it seems.