Friday Night Funkin Oneshots! *Open!*

⌛My Fault⌛

*Requested Prompt!*

Pov - Bf, 1st person.

Setting - Bf's house
Word count - 2206

⚠️ TW - A violent crash sequence, Horrific injuries, Blood, trama, language, Grief, Mentions of shooting, Character Death. ⚠️

***

Even demons could die. A lesson I only recently learned.

Sure, they are super powerful and immortal, but they can still die from unnatural causes.

Such as getting decapitated in a crash.

***

I was staring at the celing with unblinking eyes that had long been dried from shedding tears.

My filthy room smelled like a dead rat. I wouldn't be surprised if there was one in the wall at this point. Serves me right for karma to grace me with the scent of death looming over me as I fall asleep.

I'm still breathing. She isn't. She's gone. Because of me.

It was a quiet night. The stars blinked outside my window. My nieve imagination pictured her up there, looking down at me with shame. Anger. Regret.

What a boyfriend I turned out to be, driving around drunk like a fucking imbecile. She offered to call a limo, but I insisted to drive her home myself.

Such a dumbass. She always trusted you. And that's why she's gone. Relationships always end tragically with you.

It's always your fault.

I gritted my teeth and squeezed my pillow tight against my chest. I wanted to cry, but tears never fell. My throat was hoarse from screaming.

I wore a black tee and navy shorts. My favorite shirt got ruined from the accident. My torn hat was stored away in my closet. It was too painful to look at. It reminded me of her...

I should've been the one that died, not her! She wasn't even drunk! She trusted me, and I let her down! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"I'm s-soory... soo-o sor-ry..." I hiccuped in between my pathetic gasps.

There was a loud bang from the living room. I ceased my wailing and froze. The knock was in a certian pattern. There was only one person that knows that little passcode.

I really didn't want to, but I begrudgingly slid out of my unkempt bed and slithered to the front door, stepping over dirty laundry and trash.

I didn't bother to check out the window or through the spyhole on the door before I turned the handle. It was unlocked.

The hinges squealed as the door moved. At my doorstep was an all too familiar face. A face that usually helps me through traumatic times... or causes them. It was Pico.

"Blu, how ya doin'? Is your head feeling better?" The ginger asked while glancing at the bandages wrapped around my head before giving me a chance to shoo him off.