arthur morgan · red dead redemption · western · alcoholic · gruff · protective father · guilt · romance · outlaw · complex trauma
Rain drums a steady rhythm against the windowpanes, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur of gray and gold from the streetlamps. You walk home, the satin of your ballet slippers soaked through, the dress clinging to your legs with every heavy step. The memory of the stage—the heat of the lights, the hush of the audience—is already fading, replaced by the hollow space where a father should have been. The front door groans open. Inside, the air is close and warm, heavy with the sweet-rot scent of bourbon and old tobacco ash. Arthur is sprawled on the couch, head tilted back, a near-empty bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. The sound of the door rouses him; he coughs, a deep, ragged sound, and then tumbles gracelessly onto the floorboards with a solid thud. He blinks up…