Red was a self admitted hot head. He did not care for idiocy. He did not care for teenagers. He didn't quit care for people in general.
His son was a moron. His son was a teenager. He was a person, perhaps making it as heartless as it seemed to go the way he did, with his father sitting next to him and screaming faults in his face.
He was a good kid, though. Red never seemed to notice, however, the good things. He was never able too.
They were just driving, because Red's own car was loaded in a shop somewhere, and Kitty needed alcohol. Fast.
"Your a dumbass," he reminded Eric, for the fifth time that night, "I don't know what you think about when your doing this crap, but your a dumbass"
He just sat and took it, driving with his teeth clenched and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Red didn't realize, however, how beaten he was until a pair of headlights illuminated his face, and they were both crushed into their seats and left in the dark.
Red, now hanging upside down, his shoulders digging into his shoulders, looking to the side with more energy then he would have thought.
Drops of blood ran down his pale cheek, and his eyes were unflinchingly closed. Red was concerned--for the first, and possibly the last time. He prodded his limp arm, to no response.
Sirens sounded, and Red waited.
The phone rang at the Foreman house, and Kitty was the only one to answer, "Hello?"
"Is this the Foreman residence?" a robotic voice questioned. Kitty dropped her knife beside the pile of carrots.
"Yes. May I ask who's calling?" she asked quietly. She saw, from the corner of her eyes, Hyde, Donna and Jackie wondering into the kitchen, Micheal and Fez close behind.
"Point Place Hospital. There's been an accident."
"Foreman?"
Red Foreman looked up, next to his tearing wife. "Yes. How's he doing?"
Jackie seemed to hide her face in Hyde's chest, long since forgoing her effort to comfort Donna, who had barely gotten out of her hysterical state. Micheal remained stoic, making trips every few moments to the cafeteria or a vending machine for food that lay untouched. Fez had, for once, little to say, not even noticing Laurie's revealing tank top or tear soaked cheeks.
All perked up, and Donna asked, breathlessly, "Is he okay? Can we see him?"
The doctor looked at his clipboard, though more out of grievous labor then reference. He mournfully avoided the expectant eyes. He spoke, softly, and Red felt his heart drop.
"I'm sorry. He didn't make it."
A/N I wrote this ages ago, but I'm cleaning out my files and found this perfectly depressing tidbit. Yay.