At Pripyat's words, the cyclops released his shoulder and stepped back, for a moment searching with the glow of his eye. Sarcasm? No — the boy's eyes only read terror and confusion. "I'm not sorry." The words, though they did not convince him, still plunged the man's stomach, though it was what he had asked for and what he wanted. Pripyat would not waste away — no, he would not turn into his self-hating father, even if such tendencies were passed down to him.
Raising his head, Jefferson stepped back and stiffly turned away. "Go," he muttered, exhausted of emotions, of life, of leadership, of fatherhood. The one-eyed brute turned back to the church once more, climbed its steps, and without a glance back disappeared between its creaking doors — returning to the empty innards of a hollow and lonely sanctuary.
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