Sometimes, when he took her rough and hard, he liked to wear his father’s face. It gave him a sick sense of power, to be the bastard and fuck the bitch that had been his wife. He could tell her how he hated her, then, spit obscenities and harsh words at her all he liked. When he wore his father’s face she was his whore, and he told her so. He would strike her and tear her skin and use her as he like to imagine his father had. This was his fantasy, and it would go as he liked.

Sometimes he would wear the face of that little prick who had everything he had been denied. He took a sick pleasure in wearing the shrimp’s face and calling her ‘mom’, watching her flinch and twist her head because he knew she remembered. He’d taunt her, then, with what she was. What she had been and how she had come into being. Wasn’t she lucky to have a son who loved her that much? He would hold her down with the automail arm, slip the steel fingers between her lips, forcing on her a constant reminder of her unwanted past.

And sometimes, sometimes, in the late dark of night he would blindfold her and wear his own face, his true face, the face he had worn in life. She was his then, and he made love to her as man would a beloved wife. In the dark of night he would whisper into her ear and kiss her gently and forget the fact that they were both dead things. The other two had let her slip through their fingers through misplaced morals and idealism. They had wanted her but he had her, and he wasn’t going to let her go.