Endless || Dan Howell x reader (sequel to Unbroken)

Fourteen~

TW// mentions of self harm, blood, alcohol abuse

-Dan's POV-

The walk home consisted mostly of me cursing and mumbling to myself, eliciting strange glares from a few people walking past me on the pavement. I couldn't believe that Detective Novak. Who the hell did he think he was?

I thought over all of the things he said. Everything he accused me of. How could I have done any of that to my own wife? Just the thought of even touching her in means of harming her made me sick to my stomach. And here I was, being accused of killing her?!

It was completely ridiculous. I mean, I was the reason she ran out in the first place, but I'd never lay a finger on her to hurt her. He was making up all of this shit just because he doesn't have any other leads, and I was the easiest target. The easiest one to pin all of this on.

Without realizing, I'd made it all the way home in a matter of minutes. I always seem to walk faster when I'm pissed off, which is something (y/n) picked up on years ago.
I stomped up the endless flights of stairs, probably - or hopefully - annoying the neighbours. All those assholes ever do is complain, so I'll give them something complain about.

I finally got up to the apartment and burst through the front door, uncaring of who could hear. Phil, Carly and Hazel turned their heads towards me from the sofa, obviously my loud entrance had caught their attention. Carly started to say something, but noticed my infuriated expression and decided against it.

"Dan, what happened?" Phil questioned, furrowing his brows together as he quickly stood up.
"Daddy?" I heard Hazel ask quietly, barely above a whisper.

I couldn't be bothered to turn my head before I bitterly hurried up the stairs and towards my bedroom. The echoes of my boots against the wood floor were the only things I could hear besides the deafening white noise that was ringing in my ears. My stomps were so heavy I was surprised I didn't go through the floor. I was all out of tears at this point. It was all anger. Bent up rage that I had been repressing for so long.

I pushed open the bedroom door, barely hearing it slam shut behind me. I could feel the anger boiling up inside of me, like water boiling over a pot. I could feel myself shaking like leaves swaying on the trees on a windy autumn day.

Red.

All I could see was red.

The red of the nail polish (y/n) bought because she liked the colour, but after she had put it on she thought the shade was way too bright.

The red of Winnie's first bicycle as she rode it up and down our street, (y/n) holding onto the back as she learned how to steer.

The ruby red of the lipstick on (y/n)'s perfect lips, slightly smudged from her lips lingering too long against mine.

The red of her puffy (e/c) eyes from that day I gripped her wrist too hard and all of the secrets came pouring out of her cuts.

The red of the blood dripping from my fingertips due to gripping too hard on the broken glass I had thrown against the wall in a pit of anger.

I found myself crouched on the floor in front of a pile of glass, one shard in my hand, tainted with the crimson liquid trickling down the palms of my hands and onto the carpet flooring.