Dislaimer: I am Anthony Horowitz. I own the Alex Rider series. Kidding Anthony, please don't shoot me.
Another Ash fic. I'm just the tiniest bit obsessed with the guy now. I just never read much about him up here and he's such a great character if you do a little digging. I plan to post more of these weird little drabbles. Should I just leave them together in one story or post each seperately? Need help!
!WARNING!: DARK. SUICIDE HINTED AT. IF THIS UPSETS YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ FOR YOUR OWN SAKE.
Drip drop. Drip drop. Drip drop.
The rain patters its hooves against the glass pane of the window. Wind howls down the chimney, shrieking a lament lost to the thundery sky above. The clouds clash loudly, booming angry thunder for all to hear. Oh yes. A storm has blown in.
Anthony Sean Howell sits in front of the smouldering remains of a fire in the grate, a handgun resting in his lap. Tears troop sullenly down his face and drop from his chin into the glass of whiskey he cradles to his chest. His fingers hold it loosely, all will disappearing from his empty limbs.
The taste of hatred is heavy on his tongue. He feels the unnatural wind of the explosion rustling through his hair. Hears the bang for the hundredth time today. Smells the fuel scorching the air. Sees his godson sleeping peacefully in his crib
Dear God. What has he done?
Drip drop. Drip drop. Drip drop.
He is no stranger to the rain. Or the pain. The rhyming tickles something on the surface of his mind and a smile twists his lips. Somewhere, through the alcohol pumping through his veins, the mind numbing blend of uncaring ignorance, he knows he is going to pick up that gun.
He has fired twice today. Killed a father. And his son. Christ. The boy was six years old. He had blue eyes and was missing his first baby tooth. Killed a child. Child killer. Child murderer. The envelope of cash sits in his coat pocket still.
Ash wants to know what it feels like to be one of the good guys again. He's forgotten the feeling already.
Drip drop. Drip drop. Drip drop.
He fumbles with his glass and decides to set it down. It slips from his grip and a puddle of whiskey seeps across the carpet. He slurs a curse. He shot the boy over and over again, to make the blood cover up the youthful innocence. Still the eyes watch him closely.
"Uncle Ash, did you bring me a birthday present?". He forgot like the waste of space he is. Alex smiles and pretends he doesn't mind.
Drip drop. Drip drop. Drip drop.
In one motion, surprisingly fluid considering how drunk he is, he rests the gun in his mouth. His tongue touches the steel. Runs around the hole death will spill from.
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Anything to make it stop.
There you go. A four hundred and eight word drabble. Aren't you lucky? If you liked it, tell everyone. I really want more and more people to read my stuff. And of course, telling me in a review would buy you a slot on my Christmas card list. Okay? Okay then. Until next time.
-ImiTation