Work Text:
He remembers his dad's death well. It changed how he viewed the world. Changed how he viewed himself.
The memory was sealed into his brain. Every time he saw a father and his chid it was there. every time he closed his eyes it was there.
It got better over the years. He started going to therapy after it happened and talked about what he supposably witnessed and what he supposably felt. Talked about how "great of a father" he was to the two of them. But he wasn't.
Everything went wrong after mum left him for another man. "He's just got a sense of... stability, is all" she had said during an argument. Money. She meant money. They had always struggled with money, and after mum left dad was the only one to look after them.
He wasn't a good man before the incident, neither was mum - but he was always worse. He was a homophobic and racist bastard and didn't exactly hide it either. But things just got worse after mum disappeared that night. He started hitting them and beating them over the simplest of statements.
And one day, it just was too much for him to take.
--XxX--
The screaming downstairs was getting louder every minute. They had been arguing for about thirty minutes and it was getting tiring, he was trying to sleep goddamnit.
He rolled over onto his side in the bed and covered his ears with the pillow. He probably looked ridiculous but he didn't exactly care, as long as it worked to block out the noise it would stay there.
At least it worked for about five minutes, before he heard glass shattering and screams.
His blood ran cold as he heard his sister scream. She didn't usually. She was usually fearless and brave, challenging anyone who got in her way with unstoppable confidence. It's what he admired the most about her. And hearing her scream was rare and uncanny, he didn't like the sound of it.
He got up out of his bed, aiming to be as quiet as possible as he crept down the stairs. He knew where all the creaky spots were by now and avoided them easily.
He snuck into the kitchen, where the fight was happening, and hid the table (or at least tried to)
He looked through underneath the dining table and saw scarlet blood on the kitchen floors, the cold of the pristine white tiles starting to bite into his barre feet. He paid the cold no mind. Shattered glass was scattered across the ground, with beer spilled across the ground.
He got up out from under the table and saw his dad, panting. He saw Harry, her hair matte and sticky with beer pouring down the side of her face, mixing in with the blood and scratches on her face.
He gripped on the table in fear, which got the attention of Harry, who discreetly told him to leave. But he couldn't. He just couldn't leave her defenceless!
***
The gun dropped from his hands, his hands shaking and his breathing unsteady.
Dad's body lay of the floor, face first, revealing the back of his head that had been blown out. Adrenaline ran through his veins as he looked at the still warm body, and something else. He liked it. He liked holding the gun, feeling in control, he liked watching the body fall to the ground and the blood pouring out. Maybe it was because he just killed an abusive asshole, maybe the adrenaline was getting to him. He didn't know. But he liked the feeling, yet hated it at the same time. A guilty pleasure. It was confusing.
***
Harry took the blame. She said that she's the one that killed him. That she fired the gun as soon as he turned his back. She didn't have to do that for him, didn't have to make some elaborate bs story that the police somehow fell for.
She could be imprisoned for life because of him.
All he had to do was tell someone, anyone, that it was him. But he couldn't. The words died in his mouth the moment he tried to open his mouth.
***
She was let off. The court ruled it as self defence. He was thankful, of course, but Harry's life will have changed forever. The local news picked it up and immediately twisted the story, "PSYCHO TEENAGE GIRL KILLS INNOCENT MAN AND GETS AWAY!" "DAUGHTER KILLS HER OWN FATHER!", it was horrible. She couldn't go anywhere without anyone bombarding her. She couldn't get a job, or at least one that paid enough to look after the two of them. Every time they'd do a background check, they'd see the news articles and be done with her within seconds.
He stared at the plain pasta on the plate in front of him sadly, looking up at Harry, who was across the table and had the same expression on her face.
***
The next few years went by quickly. They continued to struggle silently. Harry started spending most of the money on alcohol and started drinking constantly. As soon as he turned 18, he left, wanting to get out of the situation as fast as possible. He didn't want to leave Harriet alone, but he didn't exactly want to be around a drunken person every other day.
***
The second time he picked up was when he was 30, when he signed up to the military. He got the same feeling of power he did fifteen years ago. That same feeling of control. He certainly enjoyed firing it.
He was curious about the body, if you couldn't tell. About the way it worked. About what things kept you alive and what parts were useless. It was why he became a doctor. It was why he joined the army, to see what the body can handle, to see how much it can handle. He wasn't crazy, he was just curious.
--XxX--
He stared at the shattered window in front of him, looking through the glass to the other side, watching as the cabbie's body felt to the ground in a heap of blood.
No matter how many times he fired a gun, John would always have that feeling of control and adrenaline he enjoyed.