Wakefield- Monster Inside
Title: Monster Inside
Author: butterflys_fics
Claim: Harper's Island (General)
Table: Buffet
Prompt: 14. Wandering spirit (fc_smorgasbord)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s actually rather pathetic, he thinks, that she actually thought that she could hide their son from him forever.
Warnings: Mentions of violence.
It’s actually rather pathetic, he thinks, that she actually thought that she could hide their son from him forever. It speaks to how stupid she really was, so simple in comparison to him. Yes, compared to him she was a fucking idiot. And as such it’s no surprise that she thought passing their child off to some mundane, boring suburban family in Tacoma would hide him away. Apparently she thought that he could be hidden in plain sight. Didn’t she know that people like them can’t stay hidden forever?
From the first moment he saw him on the day he had finally gotten to go back to the island and exact his revenge on Sarah for throwing his fucking child away he knew there was something there. It wasn’t just that he thought he could be his son (but oh, it seemed so likely strangely enough) but he saw something inside of him that the idiots on the island could never see. He saw this animal buried deep inside of his eyes, saw the danger throbbing in his veins and it called to his own. And even if he hadn’t thought that maybe, just maybe Henry was his son he could rid the world of another animal as strong and brutal and smart as his own.
But it was when he was in the water, oxygen slowly leaving his lungs, bleeding from where that pathetic sheriff had shot him that he knew he had to find him; it was then that he knew, somehow he just knew that the boy was his son. There was no doubt in his mind any longer. There had been something there; something undeniable that he couldn’t quite pinpoint that screamed the truth to him like a banshee reverberating through his brain. That boy had been his son and he had walked away so he could kill more of the morons on the island rather than explaining the truth to him.
It was this knowledge that had made him have the strength to get himself to the mainland, still bloody and soaking wet; it was this knowledge that he had used when he checked into a cheap hotel and dug the bullet out of himself, stitched up his own wounds and patched himself up. He had dug it out with a pair of tweezers and a knife, clenched his teeth together against the pain and let the bullet clatter to the tiled floor; he had soaked the needle and thread in peroxide and stitched his wounds shut. He had done all of this to keep himself alive, to keep himself going until he could find his son, until his revenge could be complete.
It had taken a year to find the boy he knew was his son, a year of tracking him down while trying to stay under the radar. The idiots of the world thought he was dead but it wouldn’t do not to be cautious; it wouldn’t do to let the world know that they were wrong and that the sheriff had merely wounded him when he fired; that he had fallen off of the cliff and into the water and made his way back to the mainland.
There had been satisfaction in revealing the truth, in watching the denial and disbelief flash through his son’s eyes and then finally acceptance and anger, the monster inside rising up and taking over his eyes making them impossibly darker until he too wanted revenge for being thrown away by his pathetic excuse for a mother; until he wanted revenge for the lies that he had been told his whole life.
There had been satisfaction in watching his son as he perfected his art; in watching him hack into flesh and let the blood splatter all over his face and hands. He was a quick study; he had a darkness in him that John could truly say he was proud of. It hadn’t even taken that long to teach him how to go about their craft. Henry was smarter than his mother had been; Henry had thankfully taken after him far more than he had his mother. It was a small blessing.
Now, the night before his son is bringing his supposed ‘friends’ and ‘family’ back to that pathetic island they meet in the dark. John puts his hand on his son’s shoulder, a silent sign that he is in fact rather proud of him; Henry smiles in the dark.
He’d find his way back to the island and set things up; he’d go back to the island he had managed to sneak off to several times over the years to watch the weaklings try to make their life as normal as they could after what he had done all those years before.
He can’t wait to ruin that little delusion for them.
Author: butterflys_fics
Claim: Harper's Island (General)
Table: Buffet
Prompt: 14. Wandering spirit (fc_smorgasbord)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s actually rather pathetic, he thinks, that she actually thought that she could hide their son from him forever.
Warnings: Mentions of violence.
It’s actually rather pathetic, he thinks, that she actually thought that she could hide their son from him forever. It speaks to how stupid she really was, so simple in comparison to him. Yes, compared to him she was a fucking idiot. And as such it’s no surprise that she thought passing their child off to some mundane, boring suburban family in Tacoma would hide him away. Apparently she thought that he could be hidden in plain sight. Didn’t she know that people like them can’t stay hidden forever?
From the first moment he saw him on the day he had finally gotten to go back to the island and exact his revenge on Sarah for throwing his fucking child away he knew there was something there. It wasn’t just that he thought he could be his son (but oh, it seemed so likely strangely enough) but he saw something inside of him that the idiots on the island could never see. He saw this animal buried deep inside of his eyes, saw the danger throbbing in his veins and it called to his own. And even if he hadn’t thought that maybe, just maybe Henry was his son he could rid the world of another animal as strong and brutal and smart as his own.
But it was when he was in the water, oxygen slowly leaving his lungs, bleeding from where that pathetic sheriff had shot him that he knew he had to find him; it was then that he knew, somehow he just knew that the boy was his son. There was no doubt in his mind any longer. There had been something there; something undeniable that he couldn’t quite pinpoint that screamed the truth to him like a banshee reverberating through his brain. That boy had been his son and he had walked away so he could kill more of the morons on the island rather than explaining the truth to him.
It was this knowledge that had made him have the strength to get himself to the mainland, still bloody and soaking wet; it was this knowledge that he had used when he checked into a cheap hotel and dug the bullet out of himself, stitched up his own wounds and patched himself up. He had dug it out with a pair of tweezers and a knife, clenched his teeth together against the pain and let the bullet clatter to the tiled floor; he had soaked the needle and thread in peroxide and stitched his wounds shut. He had done all of this to keep himself alive, to keep himself going until he could find his son, until his revenge could be complete.
It had taken a year to find the boy he knew was his son, a year of tracking him down while trying to stay under the radar. The idiots of the world thought he was dead but it wouldn’t do not to be cautious; it wouldn’t do to let the world know that they were wrong and that the sheriff had merely wounded him when he fired; that he had fallen off of the cliff and into the water and made his way back to the mainland.
There had been satisfaction in revealing the truth, in watching the denial and disbelief flash through his son’s eyes and then finally acceptance and anger, the monster inside rising up and taking over his eyes making them impossibly darker until he too wanted revenge for being thrown away by his pathetic excuse for a mother; until he wanted revenge for the lies that he had been told his whole life.
There had been satisfaction in watching his son as he perfected his art; in watching him hack into flesh and let the blood splatter all over his face and hands. He was a quick study; he had a darkness in him that John could truly say he was proud of. It hadn’t even taken that long to teach him how to go about their craft. Henry was smarter than his mother had been; Henry had thankfully taken after him far more than he had his mother. It was a small blessing.
Now, the night before his son is bringing his supposed ‘friends’ and ‘family’ back to that pathetic island they meet in the dark. John puts his hand on his son’s shoulder, a silent sign that he is in fact rather proud of him; Henry smiles in the dark.
He’d find his way back to the island and set things up; he’d go back to the island he had managed to sneak off to several times over the years to watch the weaklings try to make their life as normal as they could after what he had done all those years before.
He can’t wait to ruin that little delusion for them.