White Picket Fence [10/11]
Title: White Picket Fence
Pairing: none
Rating: nc-17/18
Feedback: humour me
Warnings: for the whole fic - religious themes, character death, gore
Summary: In a quaint little town like this, things aren't necessarily always as nice as they might seem...
Disclaimer: All of this is completely a work of fiction. It is set in an alternative universe. Any events similar to anything that may have happened in real life is purely coincidental, and the town in which this is set is ficticious (I made it up, and checked that it does not exist. If it somehow does, then I'll be damned). I do not own Muse or anybody affiliated with them and the few original characters are my own Again, any relation to existing people is coincidental. This is not for profit, and everything in this work completely from my own (sick and twisted) mind.
A/N: So here's the second to last chapter, and one of my personal favourites...
“You know what you need to do?”
“Yep. I’m ready.”
Christopher leaves for church, meeting Matthew out at the front of their two houses, and Dominic stands in the living room, Matthew’s trowel clutched tightly in his left hand. He’s going for the flowerbed.
He waits until around 10am, knowing that the service has definitely begun, before going out into his garden. He puts his hands on the waist-high fence separating their gardens, and he’s grateful that it is strong and sturdy as he climbs over it. Landing softly on Matthew’s lush lawn, he pads over to the flowerbed. The trowel is held tight in his now sweating palm, and he gets onto his knees.
Scanning the flowerbed, he doesn’t know where to start, so picks the barest spot and starts there. Pressing the trowel into the compacted soil, he takes a shaky breath. He’s scared, both of what he’s doing and what he might find. Turning the first pile of soil out, he pushes it onto the rest of the dark compost, being careful to make sure that he can return it to its former appearance. He continues to dig, pushing more soil out of the way.
That is until he hits something hard.
His hands tremble with enhanced fear. Pushing the dirt out of the way, he sees something small, and wonders if it’s a bulb, but as he gets further into it he realises that it’s…
He clamps a hand over his mouth, drawing back and falling onto the grass. It’s a hand, he’s sure of it, or at least this is definitely a finger. A human finger. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting his shaking hand hover by his face in the anticipation of vomit, hauling ragged breaths in and out of his lungs. Dragging himself back to the flowerbed, Dominic pushes more soil out of the way to uncover another hand, and he can’t stop the tears from spilling out when he sees the glisten of a small blue tanzanite ring.
He sits back slowly, a heavy sob hitting him in the chest. He looks down at the hand - the red nails, chipped and dirtied from their place under the dirt, the ring that its owner had loved so much, the ring that she truly wore to the grave, as she swore she would. “Kate, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers, tearing his eyes away from the dirty hand buried in the soil.
Scooping the dirt back into its previous position, Dominic stands shakily. He grabs handfuls of his hair, whining helplessly as he rubs his eyes. Looking up at Matthew’s house, he takes in a deep breath and decides that he has to keep looking. He forces himself to investigate, certain that he’ll find something in the man’s house.
Taking a deep breath, he walks up to the back doors. He bends down, picking up the flower pot and moving it aside to reveal a small key. He remembers Matthew mentioning it once during one of their conversations, and he remembers him suggesting that Dominic does the same.
He then wonders if that’s what Matthew had suggested to Kate. He wonders if that’s how she was murdered in her own home.
Picking up the small silver key, he pushes it into the keyhole nervously. They couldn’t have been at church all that long, and he is sure that he’ll have enough time to go through Matthew’s house and get out before he returns, but he moves swiftly anyway. He’s never been upstairs in his neighbour’s house, but he knows the downstairs and moves through it quickly.
He starts in the kitchen, throwing open cupboards and pulling on drawers. He can’t find anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Anything, he supposes.
Abandoning the kitchen, he searches the living room, utility room, everything, but comes up dry. He then decides to head upstairs, a strong sense of fear swirling in his stomach like a rough sea. The bedroom doesn’t provide anything, even in the wardrobe and under the bed, and he is careful not to disrupt bedding or ornaments, little details that someone like Matthew might notice.
He cautiously glances down the stairwell, watching and listening for any sign of Matthew’s return. Walking across the landing to the bathroom, he swallows heavily when a smell hits his nose. It smells sweet, like rot and decay, and when he enters the bathroom he can’t help but break down.
There, lying motionless in the bath, is Hendrix.
The big brown eyes that Dominic had fallen in love with are now lifeless and swollen. His paws are muddy, and his legs are locked in rigor mortis. His stomach does not rise and fall with the little breaths and sighs that displayed his contentment when he lay on Dominic’s lap, asleep and alive.
Dominic clasps a hand over his mouth, unstoppable tears escaping and trailing down his cheeks. He whines, sobbing into his hand. Clutching his stomach, both from shock and nausea, and he suddenly has to open the toilet lid before spilling the contents of his stomach. It stings his throat, and the tears sting his eyes as he can’t bring himself to look at the bath.
He whimpers the word ‘no’ over and over, still unable to believe that this is what has become of his beloved pet, and that his neighbour - sweet, kind, innocent Matthew - could have done such a thing.
And then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, Dominic hears the door slam.
His breath catches in his throat, his entire body frozen with fear, and he can barely even blink. He hears Matthew moving around downstairs, then he hears him walk up the stairs slowly. Trying to steady his breath, Dominic tries to stay completely silent, thought it’s hard with sobs fighting to get out of him. He silently steps to the side of the doorframe, concealing himself from view from the landing.
He hears Matthew reach the top of the stairs and he can hear him moving away from him, to what sounds like the direction of the bedroom, and when the door creaks round, Dominic wastes no time sprinting to the staircase and stumbling down it two steps at a time. He runs heavily, but he is fast, and when he races towards the back door he can hear Matthew’s voice.
“Who’s down there? Hello?” he asks loudly, but Dominic keeps running. He’s out of the door, on the grass and over the fence. His footing is clumsy as he lands on the other side and he falls on his front, but the sound of Matthew running down the stairs spurs him on, running back into his own house and locking the back door behind him.
He runs up the stairs, chest heaving and heart pounding inside of him, and he runs into his bedroom, collapsing onto his bed. His lungs feel like they’re on fire, burning from the terrified breaths being hurled in and out of them, and he lays, staring up at the ceiling as he lets the tears come once more.
He hears the front door close, and he whimpers until he hears Christopher’s warm voice. “Dom?”
“Chris,” he sobs, coming to the top of the stairs and looking down at him. “H-He did it. It’s all Matthew.”
“What?” Christopher asks in disbelief.
“I found…” he trails off, sobs inhibiting his speech. “I found Hendrix. He killed him. And I found two hands in his f-flowerbed, one of them was Kate’s and-”
The colour drains from Dominic’s face.
“Christopher, I left the trowel by the flowerbed.”
Christopher starts to walk up the stairs. “What’s the problem with that?”
“He leant it to me,” he says, trembling. “He’ll know it was me. Chris, he’s going to come for me, I just know it.”
Three solid knocks came from the door.
Dominic starts hyperventilating. “Chris, what do we do?” he whispers frantically, grabbing onto Christopher as he reaches the landing.
“Get into bed, make yourself look ill,” he says calmly. “I’ll answer the door and if it’s him, I’ll tell him you’re too ill for visitors, or I’ll stall him.”
Dominic complies, slipping into his bedroom and closing the door quietly. He rubs his face and scruffs his hair up, pulling a few tissues out of the box by the bed and scrunching them up before discarding them on the bedside table. He climbs into the bed, tugging the sheet around him and kicking his legs in the air to make the bed look slept in. Rolling onto his side, he pulls the sheet around him and curls up, clenching it tightly in his trembling hands.
He waits for a short while, and his heart is racing, so he takes a few deep breaths closing his eyes and trying to relax.
“He’s sleeping though, so you need to be quiet.”
He hears Christopher talking outside the door, slightly muffled through the thin door, and he hears the handle turn. He keeps his eyes closed, pulling the sheet up to conceal as much of his face as he can. He hears Christopher enter, and he hears Matthew talking quietly.
“I sure hope he feels better soon,” he says, a sound of genuine concern in his voice. “Do you think there’s any chance of him waking up soon?”
“I’m not sure,” Christopher whispers.
Dominic hears someone moving closer, and he hears a rustle by the side of him. It’s Matthew, and he sighs. “Well, when he wakes up, can you let him know I called. I need to speak with him.”
“I will.”
“Best wishes for both of you, I’ll be praying for our Dominic,” he says softly, walking out of the room, followed by Christopher, who clears his throat as a signal of the coast being clear. The door closes, and Dominic is left alone.
Hesitantly, he cracks an eye open. A small bunch of flowers wrapped in paper are sat on the bedside table, and Dominic recognises them from a vase that had been on one of the tables in Matthew’s house. He starts to breathe quickly again, and he jumps when Christopher returns.
“He’s gone. It’s okay, Dom,” Christopher says softly, walking over to the bed.
“Christopher, we need to go to the police,” he says sternly. “I need to tell them about the flowerbed and the bathroom and-”
“You can’t go, what if Matthew sees? He’ll be looking for anything he can get,” Christopher says nervously. “I’ll tell you what, tell me everything, and I’ll go to the police station and tell them that they need to come here right now. You need to stay here - if Matthew sees you, God knows what he’ll do.”
Dominic takes a shaky breath. “Okay. We’ll do that.”
Pairing: none
Rating: nc-17/18
Feedback: humour me
Warnings: for the whole fic - religious themes, character death, gore
Summary: In a quaint little town like this, things aren't necessarily always as nice as they might seem...
Disclaimer: All of this is completely a work of fiction. It is set in an alternative universe. Any events similar to anything that may have happened in real life is purely coincidental, and the town in which this is set is ficticious (I made it up, and checked that it does not exist. If it somehow does, then I'll be damned). I do not own Muse or anybody affiliated with them and the few original characters are my own Again, any relation to existing people is coincidental. This is not for profit, and everything in this work completely from my own (sick and twisted) mind.
A/N: So here's the second to last chapter, and one of my personal favourites...
“You know what you need to do?”
“Yep. I’m ready.”
Christopher leaves for church, meeting Matthew out at the front of their two houses, and Dominic stands in the living room, Matthew’s trowel clutched tightly in his left hand. He’s going for the flowerbed.
He waits until around 10am, knowing that the service has definitely begun, before going out into his garden. He puts his hands on the waist-high fence separating their gardens, and he’s grateful that it is strong and sturdy as he climbs over it. Landing softly on Matthew’s lush lawn, he pads over to the flowerbed. The trowel is held tight in his now sweating palm, and he gets onto his knees.
Scanning the flowerbed, he doesn’t know where to start, so picks the barest spot and starts there. Pressing the trowel into the compacted soil, he takes a shaky breath. He’s scared, both of what he’s doing and what he might find. Turning the first pile of soil out, he pushes it onto the rest of the dark compost, being careful to make sure that he can return it to its former appearance. He continues to dig, pushing more soil out of the way.
That is until he hits something hard.
His hands tremble with enhanced fear. Pushing the dirt out of the way, he sees something small, and wonders if it’s a bulb, but as he gets further into it he realises that it’s…
He clamps a hand over his mouth, drawing back and falling onto the grass. It’s a hand, he’s sure of it, or at least this is definitely a finger. A human finger. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting his shaking hand hover by his face in the anticipation of vomit, hauling ragged breaths in and out of his lungs. Dragging himself back to the flowerbed, Dominic pushes more soil out of the way to uncover another hand, and he can’t stop the tears from spilling out when he sees the glisten of a small blue tanzanite ring.
He sits back slowly, a heavy sob hitting him in the chest. He looks down at the hand - the red nails, chipped and dirtied from their place under the dirt, the ring that its owner had loved so much, the ring that she truly wore to the grave, as she swore she would. “Kate, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers, tearing his eyes away from the dirty hand buried in the soil.
Scooping the dirt back into its previous position, Dominic stands shakily. He grabs handfuls of his hair, whining helplessly as he rubs his eyes. Looking up at Matthew’s house, he takes in a deep breath and decides that he has to keep looking. He forces himself to investigate, certain that he’ll find something in the man’s house.
Taking a deep breath, he walks up to the back doors. He bends down, picking up the flower pot and moving it aside to reveal a small key. He remembers Matthew mentioning it once during one of their conversations, and he remembers him suggesting that Dominic does the same.
He then wonders if that’s what Matthew had suggested to Kate. He wonders if that’s how she was murdered in her own home.
Picking up the small silver key, he pushes it into the keyhole nervously. They couldn’t have been at church all that long, and he is sure that he’ll have enough time to go through Matthew’s house and get out before he returns, but he moves swiftly anyway. He’s never been upstairs in his neighbour’s house, but he knows the downstairs and moves through it quickly.
He starts in the kitchen, throwing open cupboards and pulling on drawers. He can’t find anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Anything, he supposes.
Abandoning the kitchen, he searches the living room, utility room, everything, but comes up dry. He then decides to head upstairs, a strong sense of fear swirling in his stomach like a rough sea. The bedroom doesn’t provide anything, even in the wardrobe and under the bed, and he is careful not to disrupt bedding or ornaments, little details that someone like Matthew might notice.
He cautiously glances down the stairwell, watching and listening for any sign of Matthew’s return. Walking across the landing to the bathroom, he swallows heavily when a smell hits his nose. It smells sweet, like rot and decay, and when he enters the bathroom he can’t help but break down.
There, lying motionless in the bath, is Hendrix.
The big brown eyes that Dominic had fallen in love with are now lifeless and swollen. His paws are muddy, and his legs are locked in rigor mortis. His stomach does not rise and fall with the little breaths and sighs that displayed his contentment when he lay on Dominic’s lap, asleep and alive.
Dominic clasps a hand over his mouth, unstoppable tears escaping and trailing down his cheeks. He whines, sobbing into his hand. Clutching his stomach, both from shock and nausea, and he suddenly has to open the toilet lid before spilling the contents of his stomach. It stings his throat, and the tears sting his eyes as he can’t bring himself to look at the bath.
He whimpers the word ‘no’ over and over, still unable to believe that this is what has become of his beloved pet, and that his neighbour - sweet, kind, innocent Matthew - could have done such a thing.
And then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, Dominic hears the door slam.
His breath catches in his throat, his entire body frozen with fear, and he can barely even blink. He hears Matthew moving around downstairs, then he hears him walk up the stairs slowly. Trying to steady his breath, Dominic tries to stay completely silent, thought it’s hard with sobs fighting to get out of him. He silently steps to the side of the doorframe, concealing himself from view from the landing.
He hears Matthew reach the top of the stairs and he can hear him moving away from him, to what sounds like the direction of the bedroom, and when the door creaks round, Dominic wastes no time sprinting to the staircase and stumbling down it two steps at a time. He runs heavily, but he is fast, and when he races towards the back door he can hear Matthew’s voice.
“Who’s down there? Hello?” he asks loudly, but Dominic keeps running. He’s out of the door, on the grass and over the fence. His footing is clumsy as he lands on the other side and he falls on his front, but the sound of Matthew running down the stairs spurs him on, running back into his own house and locking the back door behind him.
He runs up the stairs, chest heaving and heart pounding inside of him, and he runs into his bedroom, collapsing onto his bed. His lungs feel like they’re on fire, burning from the terrified breaths being hurled in and out of them, and he lays, staring up at the ceiling as he lets the tears come once more.
He hears the front door close, and he whimpers until he hears Christopher’s warm voice. “Dom?”
“Chris,” he sobs, coming to the top of the stairs and looking down at him. “H-He did it. It’s all Matthew.”
“What?” Christopher asks in disbelief.
“I found…” he trails off, sobs inhibiting his speech. “I found Hendrix. He killed him. And I found two hands in his f-flowerbed, one of them was Kate’s and-”
The colour drains from Dominic’s face.
“Christopher, I left the trowel by the flowerbed.”
Christopher starts to walk up the stairs. “What’s the problem with that?”
“He leant it to me,” he says, trembling. “He’ll know it was me. Chris, he’s going to come for me, I just know it.”
Three solid knocks came from the door.
Dominic starts hyperventilating. “Chris, what do we do?” he whispers frantically, grabbing onto Christopher as he reaches the landing.
“Get into bed, make yourself look ill,” he says calmly. “I’ll answer the door and if it’s him, I’ll tell him you’re too ill for visitors, or I’ll stall him.”
Dominic complies, slipping into his bedroom and closing the door quietly. He rubs his face and scruffs his hair up, pulling a few tissues out of the box by the bed and scrunching them up before discarding them on the bedside table. He climbs into the bed, tugging the sheet around him and kicking his legs in the air to make the bed look slept in. Rolling onto his side, he pulls the sheet around him and curls up, clenching it tightly in his trembling hands.
He waits for a short while, and his heart is racing, so he takes a few deep breaths closing his eyes and trying to relax.
“He’s sleeping though, so you need to be quiet.”
He hears Christopher talking outside the door, slightly muffled through the thin door, and he hears the handle turn. He keeps his eyes closed, pulling the sheet up to conceal as much of his face as he can. He hears Christopher enter, and he hears Matthew talking quietly.
“I sure hope he feels better soon,” he says, a sound of genuine concern in his voice. “Do you think there’s any chance of him waking up soon?”
“I’m not sure,” Christopher whispers.
Dominic hears someone moving closer, and he hears a rustle by the side of him. It’s Matthew, and he sighs. “Well, when he wakes up, can you let him know I called. I need to speak with him.”
“I will.”
“Best wishes for both of you, I’ll be praying for our Dominic,” he says softly, walking out of the room, followed by Christopher, who clears his throat as a signal of the coast being clear. The door closes, and Dominic is left alone.
Hesitantly, he cracks an eye open. A small bunch of flowers wrapped in paper are sat on the bedside table, and Dominic recognises them from a vase that had been on one of the tables in Matthew’s house. He starts to breathe quickly again, and he jumps when Christopher returns.
“He’s gone. It’s okay, Dom,” Christopher says softly, walking over to the bed.
“Christopher, we need to go to the police,” he says sternly. “I need to tell them about the flowerbed and the bathroom and-”
“You can’t go, what if Matthew sees? He’ll be looking for anything he can get,” Christopher says nervously. “I’ll tell you what, tell me everything, and I’ll go to the police station and tell them that they need to come here right now. You need to stay here - if Matthew sees you, God knows what he’ll do.”
Dominic takes a shaky breath. “Okay. We’ll do that.”