Prompt: I don't know if you'd do this one: Nash's dad finding him and then his mom finding out.
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Antonio Nash let himself into the house. He could hear his wife, Lily, moving around in the living room.
He went upstairs and she came over, greeting him with a kiss. She had been cleaning the living room, dusting off the TV.
“Are we still going out for dinner tonight?” he asked.
Lily nodded. “Yes. Go let Nash know,” she said, her face scrunching up as she spoke of her son. She was disgusted by his sexuality, but they were hoping to work that out this weekend. Maybe talk to Nash and help him realize that homosexuality was wrong. She hated knowing that he was falling deeper and deeper into his disgusting ways, and wanted to correct him before he got too far from them.
Antonio nodded and began to whistle as he pulled his tie off, walking towards Nash’s room. He stopped outside of the room and knocked, knowing that Nash had been locking himself in his room lately.
“Nash!” he called. “We’re going out to dinner in a little. Get ready!”
He furrowed his brow as he was met with silence. Usually Nash would at least mumble back some sort of reply.
“Nash!” He knocked on the door again. “Nash, are you in there?”
Still no reply. Antonio rolled his eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh. What the hell was going on with this boy lately? First he decides he wants to be some boy loving faggot, and now he was ignoring his own father.
“Nash, come on, get ready,” Antonio said, throwing the door open with a glare.
Nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight he was about to witness.
He froze, his whole body going cold. He turned away from the room, and vomited all over the floor. He dropped his knees, trembling violently, gripping his head. He looked back up, positive this had to be a nightmare, oh god wake up, why wasn’t he waking up, this couldn’t be happening.
Nash’s body laid on the floor, Antonio’s gun resting near his hand. Brain and bone and hair and blood were splattered all over the left side of Nash’s wall, on his mirror, on his pictures, on the floor, on the window.
“Adrian,” Antonio choked out. “Adrian. Adrian.”
He inched forward, positive this had to be a joke. He forced down more bile as he lightly rolled Nash over.
And then he saw the bullet wound in the boy’s head.
He started screaming.
He stumbled away from Nash, screaming, tears erupting from his eyes and pouring down his cheeks, screaming louder and louder, feeling like he was going crazy.
“Antonio!” Lily rushed into the room and stopped, nearly falling over. She stared in horror and staggered against the wall. She forced herself forward, took one look at her dead son, and also threw up. She then joined in her husband’s screaming and sobbing.
“Adrian!” she screamed, dropping next to the boy, clutching his cold, lifeless arm. “Adrian!” She was sobbing so hard she could barely get his name out. “Adrian!”
And that was how the cops found them when the neighbors heard the screaming and called 911. Two screaming adults, a mother clutching the arm of her lifeless child, and a young boy’s whole life blown to bits against the wall.
