Male OC/Reader Slasher One Shots

Arnie and Christine - Who Knows Where Buying a Car Can Take You

Pestering. Not certainly in the way that would annoy someone. But was the only was you could describe it. Feelings were never your strong suit, after all, you grew up in a strange household.

Your father was never around. Your parents were still married, of course, in some sort of mutual agreement, but your father worked upstate - only a twenty minute drive, or an hour bus ride - where he rented an apartment, because somehow, it was a "cheaper alternative", rather than paying for gas or getting a bus ticket. You liked your father. He was always nice to you, and before your second younger sister was born, he always came home with unexpected gifts and model cars. You remembered the time he brought home a model of your favorite colored car.

("Hey kiddo!" He had grinned. You raced up to him, hugging his thighs as that was all you could reach at the time.

"Dad!" You had smiled. He revealed the wrapped box, lowering it to your outstretched hands.

"Surprise!")

The whole family knew he just didn't want to be around anymore - not because of you - because your mother was terrible to him at times. Typically, that's where the sob story would end, but not for you. No. Not quite.

Your mother liked to step on your dreams, any of the hope seeping out from underneath her polished heels was wiped up and thrown away. You never knew why she acted the way she did. After all, being the oldest of six in a dwindling family, you had spent the most time with her.

You would often glance at the other kids at school, wondering if they were dealing with the same thing. And if they were...

How did they look so happy?

What was the secret?

How could you look happy when your family tormented you, comparing you to your younger sister who got straight A's in all of her classes and was popular with the boys?

How could you look happy when inside you could feel yourself fumbling your interests and hopes into a small jar that your mother pushed to the back of your mind? Meant to be alone. Forgotten.

How could you look happy when all you felt was dark emptiness? A piece of your soul lost from the moment you first opened your eyes to this world.

How could you look happy when all you could think about was how much you wanted to die?

How could you look happy when all you knew was how to look sad?

Ending it seems like quite the solution to you when you've spiraled into a depressive episode - one where you were forced to lay on the top bunk, listening to your other younger sister babble incoherently into her bright, pink phone - left to wonder if it was your last.

Then there was a shimmer of hope. A glistening sparkle that fell from whatever god rested in the skies. It was her.

A red Plymouth Fury. She was beautiful in all her rusted, chipped paint glory. A beater car, sure - but by god, she was the most beautiful thing you had ever set eyes on. Your hope increased when you noticed the orange, black, and white faded, FOR SALE sign taped to the inside of her driver window. You approached her, stroking the silver linings that traced the whole length of her frame.

A rough scratchy voice broke your train of thought.

"You in'erested in buying 'er?" A male voice croaked. You faced a man with wild grey hair - he sounded like he'd smoked since he was twelve - and he smiled. "She's ol', but she s'ill drives."

(What an odd way to start a conversation.)

His words were slurred over in that southern accent and you only barely made out what he was saying. You nodded.