"Don't tell me you're getting old," he replied mildly. "Kids these days" was right, though. Really, they were no different from kids any other days, but they did live in different times. They had never known Willowbrook as anything other than a place of sanctuary. It was not as if Oliver wanted it any other way. He, alongside all the rest of the staff and agents, had worked very hard to make it that way, and would continue to do so.
But it had been said that those who could not remember the past were condemned to repeat it.
Oliver rubbed the heel of his free hand against his brow. That bad? "Not good, anyway," he said, his jaw working. "It's pretty clear my standing here is all that's keeping Viola from worse punishment. She's already being suspended, and she'll have detention for -- well, forever, almost sounds like."
He was silent for a few moments, frowning so hard it creased his forehead into deep wrinkles. Take care of your child. That's what Dobbs had said. And though the headmistress had also said she respected him enough not to question him as a father, it didn't keep him from doing so himself. Logically, he knew that Viola was more than capable of making her own unwise decisions, and that he couldn't take responsibility for every one of them....
... but he couldn't help but wonder what he had missed. Where he had gone wrong. For a while, Viola hadn't been sleeping properly... she'd been complaining about trigger control. But she'd insisted she was fine, and he'd given her her space. Should he have pushed more? Pushed less? Was there something he ought to have said, not said? Was there something he'd failed to teach her in all this time?
The finished cigarette burned his fingers, eaten up, and as he dropped it and looked down to crush it under his shoe he saw several thick red drops splash down on the stones at his feet. "Oh, damn," he muttered, reaching instinctively up to his nose. His fingers came away smeared with blood.