Games (BENDrownedXReader)

Chapter Nine-Father is on the News

I see Ben outside of Postello's, looking back at me. I can see that he's confused, looking at my tired eyes, but it also seems like he knows why I'm like this. He's confusing when I look into his eyes sometimes, when I try to find out what he's really feeling. I walk into Postello's with him, trying to sound as normal as I can in the conversation. Something's off about Ben, I can feel it. 

It's a normal evening, playing arcade games with him and eating snacks we brought. We even played a few rounds of Skee-Ball before I said I had to go. He looks like he's desperate, not wanting me to leave just yet. I walk to the entrance, put the tickets in, and look up at the small television. There's a photo of Father, my birth father, and another woman. Marilenne. 

"A teenager discovered that the couple have been choked and stabbed to death," the newswoman says, her monotone voice still making me stressed. "The police is still investigating and refuses to show the photos of the crime scene to the public."

I feel beads of sweat form on my forehead. Marilenne. Father. They were together. The man I hated and the tardy woman. They're dead. And they were married. Marilenne was the one Father was cheating with. I feel sick to my stomach, realizing I was talking to that woman all this time, unaware of her being married to that sick man who burned my house and my mother to the ground. He burned everything I ever loved. I wanted him to pay, but not like this. He was still my father. He was still my parent, and my co-worker was my stepmom. 

I rush out the arcade, memories flashing before my eyes as I walk down the crosswalk and towards home. 

Fire. That's all I can see. Mixtures of red and orange, even some yellow. Mom is lying on the kitchen floor, only the whites of her eyes are visible. It horrifies me.

I walk through the door and see Gerald sitting on the couch, watching (favorite tv show). I sit next to him and watch it. 

Figures are dancing with the dots in my vision, taunting me for not finding an escape from my own home. I run to the living room, through the smoke and flames. The fire catches onto the walls, the source from the fireplace. it's too late to put it out.

I look over at Gerald's blurry face, and realize tears are threatening to run down my face. Gerald looks over at me and pulls me close, letting me bury my face into his chest. 

The fire becomes wild for a second, reaching for me in a desperate grasp. It grabs hold of the side of my face for a second, but it lets go. I let out ear-splitting screams as I feel my singed flesh burn and boil. With my right eye closed, I manage to find the hunting rifle Mom always hid from me. 

I touch the side of my face, feeling the scarred flesh under my fingertips. It's still a little soft. I look up at Gerald, seeing that tears are forming in his eyes. 

I run out of the living room and towards the front door, the cracking sounds above making me anxious on leaving. Dad is just standing there, outside the door, with a wide smile and crazed eyes, staring at me. 

I stay like this, Gerald's arms around me and tears falling down my face. 

"Rest in hell, where you belong, (Y/N)," he says in a sort of crooked singsong voice as he grabs onto the door's handle and slams the door shut. 

I can hear everything from my memories, crackling fire, the laugh of Mom, everything. I want it to go away, but there's no use. 

I swear, all I can hear is his laughter over the crackling flame as the house crashes into itself. I manage to break one of the back windows open and run out, holding the side of my face as if it's going to melt off. I stare from a distance, watching the roof fall into the house and destroy everything I knew. My consoles, Mom, food, shelter, everything.

I cover my scars with my hand, blocking vision from my right eye. I see dots, but I ignore them. I feel Gerald's hand laying on my (h/c), (h/l) hair. I hear him still trying to reassure me. 

The firefighters come and start putting out the fire, the men probably giving themselves false hope of them not being too late. The police and ambulance arrive together, an event that is very unusual. A policewoman starts questioning Dad as a medic checks his vitals and gives him a white blanket. I just stare at them blankly from the hill.

What did I really want to do to him? Kill him myself? Muster up the courage and tell the police? Torture? The questions start coexisting with the memory, as if it's holding nonexistent with it. 

They seem to be buying whatever Dad is saying. The fire is put out, but the house already collapsed, and everything burned out of existence. It feels strange discovering that you can have everything you would ever need one minute, and it would all disappear the next. 

I feel another tear run down my face, and the sadness is slowly replaced by anger. Why didn't I tell them? Why didn't I confront them? 

The hunting rifle is pretty much digging into my knee, but I just ignore it and continue watching the action. The firefighters who ran in to find me and Mom came back out and shook their head with the corpse of Mom being dragged by one of them.

My hunting rifle. It's buried in the wardrobe in the attic, I never thought I would need it. 

The man who's holding the singed corpse is just looking down at her, more of staring. I can see Mom in the distance, looking at her singed skin and some of her organs hanging out of her chest. Her dress has holes in it, and it is darker than the bright color she was wearing before. 

The doorbell starts ringing, but Gerald and I ignore it. We just want to be alone for a few minutes. 

I guess Mom has some living part of her, because the medics put her on a stretcher and rush her into the ambulance. I just feel helpless, looking at everything and not doing anything about it. They could just question me, compare the story with Dad's, and see who's more believable.

The ringing stops and whoever it is goes away. I can hear Gerald sob at the thought of Bethany. I'm haunted by the thought of him being hunted by something. Just for being a witness and supposed to be a victim. 

Some part of me just tells me "No, they're not going to believe you. Nobody will."

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Word Count: 1163

Welp your fictional father died. How do you feel?