Becoming A God In Another World With My Crush
Chapter 40: And All Hell Breaks Lose

Chapter 40: And All Hell Breaks Lose

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Xander’s eyes opened to silence and he blinked slowly, disoriented, his body stiff like it had been folded too long inside a cardboard box. The ceiling above him stretched pale and smooth, painted in that forgettable cream tone most houses used back when they still pretended to care about resale value.

He sat up, squinting in the half-light, it was just an old lamp shinning against pale-blue wallpaper-the kind of color his mother used to say felt "calm and cosy." There were white curtain trims, a wardrobe in the corner, and a dresser lined with picture frames that nearly stopped his breath.

’Wait a minute...’ he thought with a frown.

Why the hell did this room look so damn familiar?

He swung his legs off the bed, feet sinking into soft carpet with the exact pattern he used to trace with his toes as a kid, while listening to jazz on Sunday mornings and wondering if pancakes meant his parents weren’t fighting to the death that day.

The chipped dresser still had its uneven drawers where his mother’s fake flowers sat. He walked towards the picture frame hesitantly, like stepping closer might activate something. His fingers hovered but didn’t touch. Inside, he saw it clearly:

A boy with gapped teeth and a lopsided grin, squeezed between a woman with eyes full of tired sunshine and a man mid-laugh, his hand resting firm on the boy’s shoulder. His father, his mother and... him.

Xander exhaled through his nose.

"This isn’t real," he whispered and turned away from the dresser, stepping back toward the doorway that seemed to bleed shadow-and that was when he heard it. "That goddamned ghost..."

He had to find a way to get back to Iris and Alyhana fast and get the hell out of–

"Xander..."

The voice rang through the hallway and Xander turned around immediately m, his breath catching in his throat.

And there he stood.

The doorway stretched wide, and in the center of it was his father.

Or something wearing him?

The man’s skin was pale...almost grey, splattered in dried blood and streaks of decay. His clothes hung off his body like they’d been torn during a burial, the collar bent, the buttons twisted. His eyes were glassy and lifeless.

And in the middle of his chest...was that kitchen knife.

The knife was shoved so deep the handle nearly disappeared between two ribs and blood oozed steadily around it, slow and thick.

Xander froze, because this had to be some sort of twisted joke, his feet rooted to the carpet his throat was tight and his hands were numb.

This wasn’t...happening.

’....this can’t be.’

But the man stepped forward and his movements were stiff-jerky. Like a puppet pulled too hard by invisible strings or a zombie learning how to walk again after rotting for years.

"Xander...my son."

The corners of his mouth curled into something not quite human.

"You... did this," he whispered.

Xander’s voice came out raw. "No. I didn’t. You-You’re dead. I watched you-"

"You...did this" his father interrupted, each syllable scraping like stone. "To me..."

"I...It was an–"

"You...did this to me!"

"I was a kid! I didn’t know how to-"

"You fucking bastard!"

Xander took a step back his eyes wide behind his glasses, his father’s posture tilted unnaturally as he walked forward, feet dragging slightly across the carpet. His hand brushed the wall, leaving streaks of red blue wallpaper.

"You stabbed me," he said.

"No-" Xander shook his head quickly, fists trembling. "I didn’t–I grabbed the knife to stop you. You were killing her!"

"Shut up!" His father snapped, "You took everything from me, Xander. You did this...and I’ll make sure you pay."

Xander stumbled back again, his foot hitting the leg of the dresser and sending one of the photo frames tumbling to the floor. His heart was pounding so loud he was surprised it hadn’t stopped working all of a sudden.

"You and your mother," the corpse said, voice jagged like broken glass. "You... somehow got away with it."

Xander’s fingers gripped the side of the dresser until the wood bit into his palm. "T–that’s not what happened...I–"

"You..." The figure stepped closer.

"I was just trying to protect mom!" Xander’s voice cracked, chest rising fast. "I didn’t know what I was doing! I was just a-"

"A coward." His father’s head tilted slowly, unnaturally.

he whispered. "Why am I hearing this? This isn’t real-"

The figure’s eyes glowed faintly beneath the veil of death. "It’s as real as you let it be."

"You think death excuses you?" It asked.

"No-" Xander shook his head, fingers digging into the carpet as he pushed himself up slightly, "I didn’t–I didn’t mean-"

"You think dying made me forget?"

Xander looked around, stomach sinking.

"You’re not him," he whispered. "You’re not real."

Xander was just ten years old when shit hit the fan.

His backpack dragged behind him as he stepped into the front hallway, scuffed shoes squeaking faintly against the tile. The zipper had split earlier that day after he got shoved during lunch by a few of his incredibly stupid middle school bullies, he didn’t tell the teacher, though. Just like he barely told anyone anything.

His uniform clung to him, half untucked, stained from a juice box explosion that made him late to third period. He was tired and hungry...and a bit mad, he was already planning to disappear into his blanket fort before dinner started.

"Mom?" he called out when he stepped into the house but no answer came.

He stepped closer to the sitting room, casually, still shrugging off one of his bag straps until he saw her.

His mother.

Trapped beneath his father’s weight, he blinked once, and then twice, because his brain couldn’t process it right away.

For a moment he thought his dad was fucking his mom right there on the couch.

But when he looked closer, he saw that her arms thrashed against his chest, her legs kicked weakly against the couch cushions and her fingers clawed at his forearm she wasn’t t powerful enough to loosen his grip around her throat.

She was gasping, she was dying.

He dropped his backpack instantly and turned, sprinting down the hallway so fast his shoulder hit the wall.

His feet scrambled against the floor as he lunged into the kitchen, heart racing, lungs tight.

The knife drawer.

He yanked it open, the rusted metal screaming against the hinges. His small hands trembled as he grabbed the largest blade he could find-his fingers couldn’t fully wrap around the handle, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t think because all he saw was her face, turning blue and all he heard was her choking.

And he’d be damned if he let his asshole of a dad kill his mom.

He stumbled out of the kitchen, the knife clenched tightly in his grip now and he stepped back toward the sitting room.

"Let her go, dad."

Xander’s eyes snapped open, he was lying on the carpet again, the figure–his father’s corpse-stood at the center of the room.

Then, slowly the corpse’s hand reached toward his own chest and the thing wrapped stiff fingers around the handle and pulled it out of its chest making a wet sound and blood spilled down his torso, soaking through his shirt as the corpse lifted it.

Then tilted his head, voice lower now. Harsher.

"Tell me..." It said. "Do the people of this world... know that their Kaelhi is a cold-blooded murderer?"