And The Sins Of The Father Shall Be Visited Upon The Sons
Title: Sins of the Father
Author: infinitesimi
Characters: Hohenheim and sons
Warnings: death and gross stuff
Spoilers: for the series, ignores the movie
Those of you who are left will waste away in the lands of their enemies because of their sins; also because of their fathers' sins they will waste away. -Leviticus 26:38-40
The smell was all over the house now; it was in the books, in the cabinets, in the blankets, everywhere. It wasn’t comforting anymore. It no longer reminded Edward of his childhood, it was no longer the smell of home, of two parents, of a laughing, happy mother and a kind, smiling father and a tiny baby brother. The perfume could no longer mask what it was meant to: decaying, purpling, dying flesh.
Both father and son had always worn long sleeves, closed collars, gloves, and the like. Both had bodies that shamed them; both hid. But it had been weeks now since Hohenheim had been able to leave the house. At first it was what looked like a bruise on his temple, and then one across his knuckles, but soon it was unexplainable.
Living bodies didn’t simply rot away.
Edward had seen many horrible things in his short life, and so he did not flinch even once when his father coughed, and bits of rotting lung flecked his lips, and the rotting hand he lifted to brush them away left a sticky, sickly mess in the blond beard.
It wasn’t about judgement anymore. It wasn’t about anger over past wrongs. It was something Edward had spent more than half his life swearing he would do if he got the chance, but it was so much different than that now. There was none of the old rage.
The gun felt heavy in his hand. He studied it for a moment, the cold metal in his flesh hand, even looked in to the barrel, and then carefully extended his arm in front of himself and aimed it directly between the eyes. When it comes down to it, he told himself firmly, there is no right, there is no fair. There just is.
His father took one more half-breath, and Ed didn’t even look once more on his face with its oozing eyeballs and exposed bones, not even bleeding because only living things bleed. He squeezed the trigger and his hand jerked back with the force of the bullet.
He didn’t see it enter his father’s skull, but it sank at once into that soft, bruised brain matter and was likely buried somewhere in the mattress or perhaps the floorboards.
There was no more wet breathing, no more coughing up of decaying organs. Edward let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. It was over.
The day he called his father’s house home, the day he called the man “dad” rather than “bastard,” the day he first thanked the man for a kindness, he had never imagined he would kill him. With the gun still grasped in his hand, he made his way slowly out of the room and down the stairs.
There was a glass and a bottle already waiting for him on the coffee table; in fact, it was half drunk already. Ed moved to set the gun down and pour himself another, but there was a knock at the door, making him jump.
When he cracked the door open he thought first that he was looking into his own eyes, and the next moment he thought they were his father’s. His metal hand clutched his chest in sudden memory of pain, and, with a completely different type of determination, he raised the gun and aimed it directly between the eyes.
Author: infinitesimi
Characters: Hohenheim and sons
Warnings: death and gross stuff
Spoilers: for the series, ignores the movie
Those of you who are left will waste away in the lands of their enemies because of their sins; also because of their fathers' sins they will waste away. -Leviticus 26:38-40
The smell was all over the house now; it was in the books, in the cabinets, in the blankets, everywhere. It wasn’t comforting anymore. It no longer reminded Edward of his childhood, it was no longer the smell of home, of two parents, of a laughing, happy mother and a kind, smiling father and a tiny baby brother. The perfume could no longer mask what it was meant to: decaying, purpling, dying flesh.
Both father and son had always worn long sleeves, closed collars, gloves, and the like. Both had bodies that shamed them; both hid. But it had been weeks now since Hohenheim had been able to leave the house. At first it was what looked like a bruise on his temple, and then one across his knuckles, but soon it was unexplainable.
Living bodies didn’t simply rot away.
Edward had seen many horrible things in his short life, and so he did not flinch even once when his father coughed, and bits of rotting lung flecked his lips, and the rotting hand he lifted to brush them away left a sticky, sickly mess in the blond beard.
It wasn’t about judgement anymore. It wasn’t about anger over past wrongs. It was something Edward had spent more than half his life swearing he would do if he got the chance, but it was so much different than that now. There was none of the old rage.
The gun felt heavy in his hand. He studied it for a moment, the cold metal in his flesh hand, even looked in to the barrel, and then carefully extended his arm in front of himself and aimed it directly between the eyes. When it comes down to it, he told himself firmly, there is no right, there is no fair. There just is.
His father took one more half-breath, and Ed didn’t even look once more on his face with its oozing eyeballs and exposed bones, not even bleeding because only living things bleed. He squeezed the trigger and his hand jerked back with the force of the bullet.
He didn’t see it enter his father’s skull, but it sank at once into that soft, bruised brain matter and was likely buried somewhere in the mattress or perhaps the floorboards.
There was no more wet breathing, no more coughing up of decaying organs. Edward let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. It was over.
The day he called his father’s house home, the day he called the man “dad” rather than “bastard,” the day he first thanked the man for a kindness, he had never imagined he would kill him. With the gun still grasped in his hand, he made his way slowly out of the room and down the stairs.
There was a glass and a bottle already waiting for him on the coffee table; in fact, it was half drunk already. Ed moved to set the gun down and pour himself another, but there was a knock at the door, making him jump.
When he cracked the door open he thought first that he was looking into his own eyes, and the next moment he thought they were his father’s. His metal hand clutched his chest in sudden memory of pain, and, with a completely different type of determination, he raised the gun and aimed it directly between the eyes.