Façade (AHS: Hotel)

Chapter 10

Note: Video media best played after the first segment of this chapter (I use "~")

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"I never was an alcoholic. Just a control freak."

John had his collar loosened by Angela as they sat on the edge of his hotel bed. She had also fetched him a glass of water to help clear his system, and when he took a sip, he felt like it was beginning to work already. He had a few hallucinations on the way back to Room 64, but nothing like he was experiencing at the entirely imagined "Devil's Night" soiree. Their eyes met for a moment, and Angela gave a quick reply as she patted his back.

"Are you okay now?" she asked.

"Yeah," John said with a nod. "I...I just...it's been so long since I've gotten drunk. I think that's why I was like that just now."

"If you don't mind me...uh...asking," Angela began, "when was the last time? Can you remember?"

There was a silence; John took the opportunity to take a deep breath and try to remember his last time being drunk. He sipped from the water, which turned into a big gulp, before speaking.

"I always have...tried to stay sharp. Being a cop, that can be difficult even with the stuff I face every day on the job. It started like most days. Multiple homicide in Glassell Park. Dad here spent the year in prison for second-degree assault. We figure he couldn't take the pressure, so he poisons them all, and blows his brains out. It was sad seeing those children dead in the living room, but on the flipside, at least they died peacefully."

"Oh my god," the young brunette sighed, patting his shoulder comfortingly. "I can only imagine how awful you felt."

"Well...we learned later that he didn't actually kill his family," John continued. "His power had been turned off, so he brings in a portable generator so his kids can stay warm. It ran out of gas, so he came back from his night shift, and he found his whole family dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. That's enough to make a man shoot himself."

"Oh my god," Angela repeated, feeling a pang in her heart at picturing the scene he was describing.

"I had two kids at the time myself. It was Holden and Scarlett. I didn't make it back home for two days. Then the day I came home, I took the family to the beach. Some kind of desperate gesture to earn my wife's forgiveness, but then I realized she didn't know how truly traumatized I was. It almost worked...but..."

"But...what, John?" she asked, paying attention to his every word.

"We lost Holden," he said. "There was a carnival at the beach, and I remember putting him on the carousel. I still remember the color of horse. It was yellow. One minute, he's there having a fun time. The next, he's gone."

"That's terrible," she said.

"For five years, we believed he was dead. My wife had lost hope. It put a strain on us, and she even attempted suicide. I found her in the bathtub with slit wrists. I was the first to find her. I thought I was going to lose her," he explained.

"I'm so sorry, John." Angela frowned complacently, reaching for his hand to hold it. "I'm sorry all of that happened to you."

"Scarlett has since seen Holden. As for my wife, I have not heard from her since she gave me the divorce papers. I don't know if Pamela is right, either."

"What do you mean?" Angela asked. "The police psychic, or whatever she is?"

"Yes," John said. "Uh, I made an awful mistake calling her crazy."