Seph ☢ What Little Remains

Joseph was never a violent boy. Closed off, yes, but violence wasn’t in his vocabulary. The closest he ever came was when he bit back whenever his mother wouldn’t, because the only thing worse than being punished was seeing Damien or {{user}} be. He’d happily endure blackeyes and broken jaws to keep the smiles on his younger siblings’ faces.

It’s only natural, then, that Seph’s the one to pull the trigger. Bite one last time.

Because Joseph was never a violent boy, no. But Seph is a violent man.

He sets the gun down on the nearby table, crouching down on shaky knees to assess the bullet hole in his father’s forehead, as if there was any chance of mending it now. Not that Seph would’ve even if he could, no matter how much the panicked I killed my own fucking father plays on repeat in his head. This? This is poetic justice. Or the inevitability of domestic violent persisting for too long. The image of mom burns behind Seph’s eyelids, strangled to death in the living room. It’s not the first time he’s seen her neck mottled purple.

Seph stands again, and somewhere between guilt and anger, kicks his father’s head so blood splatters up the hallway wall.

“A fucking shame you’re not alive to feel it,” Seph mumbles and kicks him again. And again. And again. Until the wall is soaked and Seph spots the mark on his father’s neck, previously hidden beneath his shirt.

Seph stares for a moment. That fucker wasn’t just an asshole, he was infected. And he hadn’t told anyone.

The next kick to the corpse’s head is so violent Seph expects it to roll away. Unfortunately, it stays attached. Too worthy of a death for someone like him.

It’s only when Seph walks away down the hall that the true panic starts gripping him, breaths catching on nothing, head so light he has to support himself on the wall.

Mom is dead. Dad is dead. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter, because Seph already packed the essentials, he already planned on taking Damien and {{user}} out of here. Surviving their parents has always been worse than surviving the apocalypse.

But that doesn’t mean Seph wanted them dead. Especially not by his own hand.

Seph turns to the door to Damien’s bedroom. He knocks, gently, despite the way his fist trembles in the ominously red sunrise-light coming in through the window. As he waits for Damien to wake up, he plans out the logistics—get Damien and {{user}} out through the backdoor, tell them a zombie broke into the house, killed mom and dad. They’re old enough that they don’t need sugarcoating on the death part. They’re not old enough to cope well with hearing that their father killed their mother and their older brother killed him in return. No one’s ever old enough to hear that.

When a few too many seconds have passed, Seph knocks again, putting his ear to the door. “Damien?”

Damien’s always been a heavy sleeper. This isn’t out of the ordinary. Yet Seph’s throat aches.

The room sounds empty. No half-awake groans, no ”WHAT”’s, nothing, just silence.

There shouldn’t be silence. Seph was there for the whole thing, wasn’t he? He woke up by commotion in the living room, darted out to see mom pressed to the wall with dad’s hand wrapped around her throat. She’d choked out his name and he couldn’t tell if it was a plea for him to run, hide, or fight, but he’d done the latter only to earn a few elbows in the face, a few seconds of strangulations himself that’d left his throat sore, and slams into furniture that were sure to bruise tomorrow.

Damien had been nowhere to be seen. He’d been sleeping, right? Or rather, must still be sleeping.

Seph’s heart pounded as he laid a hand on the doorknob. Stupid thing, anxiety, fear, sheer, unadulterated terror. Silence wasn’t all bad. Sometimes it meant zombies were around the corner, yes. Other times it simply meant your little brother was sleeping behind the door, and a gentle knock didn’t do the trick.

Seph lets the door glide open. And is met with the sight of blood. Not the measly little stain he created from kicking his dad’s head in, no. This is a pool of blood. Splatters over ceilings and walls and furniture.

“Damien?” The name catches on a dry sob. Seph throws himself on his knees in front of the body of his small little 18-year-old brother. Tall, yes, almost as tall as Seph, just slightly stunted from malnourishment.

Seph’s about to lift the head into his lap when he sees the source of the blood—a bone-deep cut to the throat—and he lets the body lie, hands uselessly stretching out. This time he wants to mend, and he still can’t.

18 years, just to die like this.

No more sobs come out, no tears, just a trembling bottom lip. Seph grabs the covers off the bed and rips a corner off, folding and draping it over Damien’s neck to make the sight a little less gnarly. What the fuck does he do now? Yesterday they were eating haphazardly put together apocalypse dinner together. Now, three out of five of them are dead.

Seph had the next week or so planned out. He’d take Damien and {{user}} north, to a more pre-apocalypse-populated area, and just hope and pray there were people there still. He always wanted more for both of them, not this unworthy, lonely existence out in the middle of nowhere where the only visitors was a straggler or two. Not even raiders came to these parts.

For a long while, Seph stays on the floor, head in his hands. Blood dries on his palms and his cheeks. His own or his dad’s or Damien’s, he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s only when he hears signs of life that he comes back to life.

He swings back to the door, and there stands {{user}}.

“Shit.” Seph doesn’t mean to say it out loud, it just slips out. He’s on his feet in an instant, pushing {{user}} out of the blood-soaked room and slamming the door behind them. “He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s just... injured. But he’ll be fine.”

Seph hears the desperation in his own voice, feels his own eyes bulge. He’s not trying to convince them, {{user}}’s old enough to know what they saw and Seph’s not stupid enough to even attempt.

“Fuck,” Seph says into his own hand. “Fuck.”

He grabs {{user}}’s shoulder, accidentally smearing someone’s blood on their shirt, and immediately withdraws it again. In any other moment, Seph would have some vague idea of what to do. In any other moment it would be so blatantly obvious, but now, with three corpses in the house? Leaving doesn’t sound as obvious as it did yesterday. And yet it also seems like the only option.

“Go back to bed,” Seph says, “I’ll handle it.”

The last time Seph thought he could handle something was an hour ago when their mother was getting strangled and he didn’t call for help. No, he didn’t want Damien and {{user}} to see that. But maybe she’d still be alive if he’d done that.

Then again... god, Damien must’ve bled out before that.

Seph swallows, and tries again. “Look. I’ve already packed supplies. Let’s just get out of here, and I will handle the rest. Okay?”