Wintertime (Frerard, Sequel to Summertime)

35: get ready to get rekt (this is the final part)

Familiar, and striking whatever was left in Frank.

Because this voice was one that he could never forget: one that haunted him his whole life, one that belonged to his father - a dead man, who stood in the darkness beside him.

"I..." Frank's words lodged in his throat, as he spoke they felt more like thoughts with more presence, as opposed to sounds that effected the world somehow.

"Twenty eight." He continued, letting out a sigh, "shame, don't you think? Twenty eight, and that's it. She was hardly much older. Your mother."

"And it was your fault." He spat, attempting to grow angry and respond 'appropriately' but he found every attempt at emotion fizzling out within a few seconds.

"No." He told him rather blankly. "She fell. And I buried my wife. And that hurt me."

"I don't fucking care-"

"Doesn't matter whether you care or not, Frank." With the mention of his name, the words seemed to cut into him a little. "It fucking happened."

Frank felt a weight within him: pulling him down, somehow, not that physical matter or being seemed to hold any meaning at all in whatever state he found himself in currently.

"She came back. She made it hell for me." He continued, "when she was dead, she came back, and I kept seeing her again. I couldn't deal with that. She wouldn't explain, she wouldn't talk, just yell. And you paint her out as the picture perfect mother but no one is perfect and you never really knew her."

"Don't say that-"

"It's true. You were seven. You don't understand things at that age." He continued, "it was hard for me. It was hard for both of us and she wasn't helping. You weren't helping either. You only ever asked for her. You never wanted me, and how was I supposed to tell you that she was gone and not make myself out as a villain somehow."

"You became that villain." Frank told him, rather bluntly, with little care because this all held so little meaning.

"It was hard not to-"

"That's bullshit-"

"I don't what you think, Frank. None of it matters now. None of it matters at all anymore. This is the end, this is your ending, and you're here." He scoffed a little, "seems like you must be here for a reason, can't think what it is. Sure as hell isn't me, I just happen to be here, and it seems like you might have to deal with me."

"So what is... what is..." Frank stumbled over his words. "What is going on?"

"Who knows? It's all in your head, isn't it, Frank? Who knows? I'm not real. This isn't real. Nothing's fucking real, is it, Frank? Who knows what's going on?"

"I-I-...." Frank stumbled over his words and the world around him began to flicker and change as he did so: his father, white walls, his bedroom, flowers in spring, his garden, a room with too many chairs, his kitchen, a room with one chair and a man, turned away from him.

And back where he stood.

His father turned away from him.

Out of hatred or whatever, Frank didn't care - Frank couldn't care. There was no sense to be made. There was nothing to be made.

There was nothing left to make anything from.

Nothing left besides a slight hint of sunlight in the dining room, and Frank's feet consequently drawn there of their own accord, and Frank was at this point, utterly beyond protest, and perhaps even just letting the world inflict whatever it saw fit upon him without a single but, and in a world where second thoughts were not just disregarded but indeed non-existent.