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Alan Smith was not stupid.
He knew when something was amiss, especially when it came to his son.
God, when did things get so bad?
He was currently waiting outside his sons bathroom, as patiently as he could, for Quentin to finish shaving his legs so he could go swimming again. Alan never really understood his sons penchant for swimming, in fact he had even tried to dissuade his son from perusing the sport. He’d told him sports like soccer or maybe track would suit him better, but his son was dead set in his ways, it was swimming or nothing. So he eventually -very reluctantly- gave in, and while he was a little aggravated about his sons choice of sport, he soon came to accept it upon seeing Quentin’s utter joy when in the water.
In fact, his son overall seemed to be happy with how life was treating him. While he was prone to an outburst or two, he’d just chalked it up to him being a teenager.
Maybe that’s why Alan was so shocked when his son stormed into his office with his friend, Nancy in toe, and was just a little shy of yelling at him.
He knew already that Quentin wasn’t upset about something small; it had to be something important for him to come to him during school, and not waiting until they got home. That’s just how Quentin was, he didn’t like making his problems public, he tried his hardest to keep them to himself, and as a man he could respect that, but as his father he loathed it.
Alan stared at the wall in front of him, white drywall adorned with scattered photographs. If you looked hard enough, you could see a timeline created by those photos strung on the wall and on the table, though a distinct chunk of that timeline was missing, Quentin’s preschool photographs. Those were also the last images they had of his mother too. He sadly mused over that fact, did Quentin even remember his mother, maybe even her looks? Probably not, if he had forgotten his preschool days he would’ve also forgotten anything before that too.
Then his mind wandered further, onto the man that caused so much grief in the town.
When Quentin and Nancy had come to him, he’d been shocked. Quentin asked him why’d he murdered an innocent man. He’d been so, terribly shocked. He couldn’t believe his ears for two reasons. One, how did he ever find out about the pursuit of Krueger? Unless one of the other parents told their children, who told Quentin, but all the parents had agreed that what they were doing was just, so that couldn’t be it. Two, why was he referring to him as innocent? He must have remembered the man somehow someway, but if he did, wouldn’t he have also remembered the, for lack of better words, unsavory bits?
Nancy, shockingly, had tried to come to Alan’s defense, shooting Quentin a pointed, “We don’t know for sure if he is innocent.” Alan had felt somewhat grateful for Nancy’s input at the time, but now he didn’t know what to think about the young lady. The last time he saw Quentin that day was when he left the school with that Nancy, and then he ends up in the hospital in critical condition, and Badham Preschool is on fire.
He couldn’t help but think that it was attempted murder-suicide.
From Alan’s point of view, the two teens had a relapse of trauma, and in a desperate attempt, tried ridding the source away from the world,and further, themselves. But the wounds on Quentin couldn’t have been self inflicted, he looked battered and oh god, so terribly in pain. Alan had cried for the first time in years when he saw his son in that hospital bed. He looked over his sons wounds, the almost too deep slashes across his front, and the four stab marks on his shoulder.
Nancy and her mother were in a room on the first story of the hospital, and apparently all she had to show for it were four scratches across the arm. That had made him angry and bitter, why was his son mauled? Why did it have to be Quentin? What did Quentin ever do to deserve almost getting maimed? Brutally murdered? And to hear Nancy made it out with four inconsequential scratches on her arm.
The thought crossed his mind, why couldn’t it have been Nancy?
Then Alan started to rationalize it in his head to the best of his abilities. Maybe the teens had gone to set the accursed place on fire, rid it of the town, and then Nancy had turned on his son and tried to murder him, and his son fought back against the untimely death, and just when she thought he was dead, she tried to give herself a quiet death by cutting her arm, but then someone noticed the fire and called the police, and caught, Nancy helped Quentin get an ambulance out of there.
To him, Nancy was a murderer, even if she hadn’t succeeded, she had tried to take his sons life.
However, when Quentin awoke, he told Alan all about how Krueger came back, and tried to kill them both for revenge, about how he was right to kill the gardener the first time. And while Alan nodded in acknowledgment, he didn’t believe the story for a second. No one can cheat death. Alan firmly believed his son was going through a hardcore relapse, and maybe thought he saw Krueger in Nancy’s place when she had tried to kill him, after all his brain probably wasn’t functioning properly with all the smoke and blood loss.
Regardless of what his son thought he was seeing, and claimed, he forbid Quentin from getting anywhere near Nancy, or even talking to the young lady.
Quentin fell into what he can only call a Great Depression when he had said that.
He recalled Quentin had stopped eating for a while. It started with breakfast, then he’d eat a little lunch, but eventually would stop coming down stairs for lunch too. When he’d eat dinner, he’d grab small scraps and chew on it for a minute, push himself away from the table, plate in hand, wash his dishes, then retreat back upstairs to his room with a small, “Thank you for cooking.”.
He noticed his son had also started drinking energy drinks and popping caffeine pills like there was no tomorrow. After all, he indulged his son in said things for the first few times Quentin had requested them. But once he saw how hollow and jittery Quentin had become, he had stopped buying them.
Dear lord, did Quentin pitch a fit when he stopped coming home with those energy drinks and pills.
He remembered Quentin raising a pale and shaky fist into the air and smacking-or at least trying to-the wall of his room. Quentin let out angry shouts as he did this, then his son dropped onto his bed and curled in on himself, violently shaking while crying. Muttering about how he’d “Damned him.”
That’s when Alan decided his support wouldn’t be enough, and his son most definitely needed a therapist.
After a few months had passed, he saw a definitive improvement in Quentin. While he was still jittery, shaken, and ever so temperamental, he was regaining some of his previously deteriorated personality. His son would now join him for dinner, and breakfast, while the conversations would be half hearted, it was an improvement from the completely empty and silent table spare for Alan. Alan also noticed how whenever he’d make a joke, Quentin would crack a small smile but groan in distaste at whatever horrible pun he’d just made.
It was definitely getting better. Slowly but surely.
He put his knuckles against the bathroom door and knocked. Quentin had been in there for a while now.
No response.
Well. He had all the time in the world to wait, maybe his son was just having a long staring session with himself again. He’d caught Quentin doing this twice, where he’d sit in front of a mirror for a good half an hour without his shirt, staring at his reflection. It made Alan’s heart break when he saw it, lord knows how many more times Quentin’s done this staring competition with his reflection when he wasn’t present, but when he was, Alan just wanted to wrap his son in a hug and tell him that he still was perfect, and that there was nothing wrong with his body, but his son was no longer the biggest fan of physical contact anymore, not since the hospital. He’d learned that right away when he tried to embrace his son, and Quentin responded with a strong flinch and loud yell for help.
Alan would be lying if he said he didn’t feel helpless as a father. He was supposed to be the one who protected Quentin, and he was supposed to protect him from something like this. How was he to stop this though? He couldn’t even give his son a hug without warning him before hand.
That’s why he was so excited when Quentin had asked if he could go swimming. That meant his son was becoming more confident in himself once more.
Then he heard screaming.
Alan immediately stood up and grabbed the doorknob, twisting it and flinging the door open as quickly as he could. The bright lights of the bathroom greeted him, and his eyes sought out his son, he was across the room from him, back towards the door. His legs were in the bathtub while he sat on the closed toilet lid with swimming shorts on. That’s when he noticed his sons curly haired head twisting to the side while his right hand held a shaky, bloody razor.
Yelling in alarm, Alan dove forward and wrenched the razor from his sons surprisingly tough grasp, disposing of the little devil on the floor behind him and shaking his sons shoulders.
“Quentin!” Alan yelled desperately at him, he looked at Quentin’s face, noticing his half lidded and dazed eyes. He gave Quentin a small slap-not enough to hurt but enough to sting-on the cheek and that made Quentin jolt in his seat, his blue eyes watering and opening wider than Alan had ever seen them, and recoiling before letting out a hiss of pain, cringing while he lifted his right leg up.
Alan’s eyes shifted and looked at the leg, it had numerous cuts littered on it, all leaking crimson down his leg. But they didn’t look normal, they didn’t look like accidental razor cuts, they were too deep and large for that. It looked as if he had been pressing the razor into his skin before moving it, tearing his skin as he did.
“D-dad?” Quentin’s shaky question pulled him out of his stupor. Alan made sure Quentin could see his hands moving towards him slowly, looking for Quentin’s nod, before embracing his son. “..Quentin. Please, tell me the truth. How long have you been doing this?” Alan asked, his own brown eyes now watering. “I- I didn’t- didn’t do anything.” Quentin replied, his voice on the verge of a sob. Alan let out a small, sad sigh before continuing, “Then what did this? Who’s-“
“Freddy is, it’s Freddy!” Quentin now sobbed hysterically, his hands grabbing and digging into Alan’s shirt.
How was he supposed to say this? God, had his son gone insane? “Quentin,” Alan slowly started, “He-he can’t hurt you anymore, he’s dead-“
“He should be!” Quentin corrected him in a screech, his bleeding leg jerked out wildly, kicking the tub with its heel. “He won’t leave me alone! I can’t sleep! I always see him! It’s not fair!”
“Quentin- calm down-“
“No! You don’t believe me, and then I’ll die just like Dean, and Kris, and and Jesse!” Quentin screamed in a shrill cry, “I don’t want to die, Dad! I’m scared! I want him to go away, I want him to die but he won’t!”
Alan was at a loss for words, he didn’t know what to do. Slowly he tightened the embrace around his son, his brown eyes now leaking some tears which he tried to stifle for Quentin, but he wouldn’t know he was crying regardless.
“What does he do?” Alan asked softly, he might as well try to see where his son was coming from, then he might know what to tell Quentin’s therapist for a warning when they inevitably met her again. “He always hurts me.” Quentin sobbed lowly, “This is the first time he’s hurt me- physically,” he paused, trying to stop a hiccup. “Since coming back from the hospital.” Alan nodded, “What else?”
“He’s shown me you dying- the same way he’s died.”
Alan went still at that, processing it, and swallowing a thick lump in his throat, added, “Anything else?”
Quentin went silent at that as if he was contemplating continuing, before taking a shaky breath.
“He’s.. he’s..”
“Take your time, breath. In and out, like we practiced, remember?”
“Mm.” Quentin stressfully hummed, the sound becoming louder and more aggravated at the end opposed to the almost silent start of it.
“It’s ok if you don’t want to say it-“
“He’s shown me.. times where.. when, we were back at the preschool..”
Alan did not like where this was going, and apparently neither did Quentin by the sounds of his increasingly louder sobs, which Alan tried to sooth.
“And.. and! He’s shown me what he did to us..! And, and and, I just can’t take it anymore!” Quentin wailed, Alan hugged him tighter, trying to calm his sons erratic cries, whispering faint “It’ll be ok”s, “It’s alright,”s, and “I’m here.”.
Eventually, Quentin did stop wailing, and was now much more quietly crying and sniffling whenever snot threatened to spill out of his nose. Alan got up and dampened a hand towel, before getting Quentin’s ok to lightly press the cloth against his face in an attempt to help clean the mess there, then he got another damp towel and began to clean up his sons leg. He watched with a small grimace as the navy blue hand towel became a deeper shade of almost purple as he pressed it against the cuts there.
When he finally got Quentin’s leg cleaned up, neosporin-ed, and bandaged up, he gave Quentin another hug, before asking, “Would you like some ice cream?”
To which his son gave him a small smile, “Strawberry?”
“Strawberry.”