Twisted Pretzel Chapter 25
Title: Twisted Pretzel
Author: 2he_re (Heather and Reena)
Fandom: Jonas Brothers
Pairing(s): Joe/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, the real people in it are used without their permission and we do not own them or have any copyright to any part of any of them. We do not believe any of this happened, is likely to happen, or will happen. It is simply a story created around known facts about those involved.
Summary: Mrs. Johnson dislikes the Jonas Brothers. She hates Joe. Why? Doesn’t really matter does it? What matters is that she was playing a game to get rid of him. Death. Horrible death.
“Tristan Darthe” was her pawn. Arrested a year after the incident and tried. His mental state was proven to be unstable, and instead of a jail sentence he was sentenced to an asylum for the rest of his poor, pathetic, lonesome life, where I'm not even allowed to go suicidal.
Call me unstable, call me insane, but oh deary me, I’d loved that game. I mean, money is good and all, but you know, killing is better.
But damn, I’d lost.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 pt. 1 Chapter 21 pt. 2 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24
~*~
When people say, "Be yourself," they're spewing some bullcrap. Being yourself gets you nowhere unless you're perfect. I wasn't perfect; therefore, I never bothered being myself.
I walked into the airport, wearing only a little bit of makeup. I rolled one suitcase behind me, a backpack resting on my shoulders. I slammed my elbows onto the counter, my wrists jangling with bracelets.
"Hillary Marth," I said, pulling out the passport. "One ticket to New Jersey." I handed over Hillary's credit card and her photo I.D. I got my ticket within five minutes. The flight would leave within the hour. I headed into a bathroom. I ripped off my clothes, stuffing them into the suitcase. I pulled out a different set. I switched my shoes, and changed my jewelry. I added a new layer of makeup on. I walked back out, brushing down the t-shirt.
"Jack Roth," I grunted. His passport was handed over.
"Pat Dan," I muttered.
"Linda France."
"Joelle Miles."
"Julie Carboy."
"Kyle Komar."
"Janice LaPort."
"Garth Smith."
I took extra time on this last one, restyling my hair just perfectly, applying the makeup slower. I stopped in one of the stores to buy the perfect purse. The one I wanted was made from fake leather, a nice dark color. I debated not buying it, unsure if everything would fit in it: the extra clothes, passports, credit cards, money, and makeup. But I did, forking over cash. I headed into a different bathroom -- you'll be amazed with the number of bathrooms in an airport if you look hard enough -- and stuffed the items that had forcefully come into my possession into the new purse. I strung the strap around my shoulder, a hand resting on it. It didn't even bulge out too awkwardly. I slipped on the backpack and wheeled the suitcase back to the front desk.
I placed my manicured hand down on the grey desk, the passport wrapped between my fingers. The American Airlines' logo stood out in a funny looking contrast to the grey walls behind the desk. "First class ticket to Philadelphia, please," I purred to the attendant. I had only just come to see him nine other times. Amazing how unobservant people are.
"I.D.?" he asked. I smiled, handing it over. "Anna Quinter?"
"I got my hair dyed," I replied to the raised look from Anna's grey hair to my blonde. "Makes me look younger, doesn't it?" Makes me look more like me, and so funny he didn’t notice the resemblance to Tristan and I. So funny.
He handed me over the ticket. I gave him a gracious smile. He didn't even understand how much he helped me.
The security was nothing to worry about. I swung my backpack and suitcase onto the little belt, sticking my purse in one of those ugly grey bins. I stepped through the metal detector without anything going off. I had no metal to remove, no silly chains or anything like that when running over skies. All I had was lots of clothes and lots of notebook looking things on the scanner. Absolutely nothing to be stopped for.
I headed down to one of the gates farthest from my actual departure point. I parked my suitcase by a line of half ripped black chairs. I dumped my backpack into one about three rows away. I kept my hand on the purse and located the nearest bathroom. I popped into one of the stalls and closed it behind me. How to clog an airport's toilet: Drop in extra passports and flush until bubbling with water, throw in toilet paper for extra effect.
I went back to where I had dropped my luggage off. I didn't even glance at it. I hurried to the desk by the gate and started to complain to the receptionist about the toilet problem. I was persistent enough and annoying enough that she finally followed me into the bathroom to look at it. I closed and locked the stall behind her without her even noticing. She had dipped her head over the toilet. "I think that looks like --"
Her death wasn't that bad. Nothing dramatic, just quietly as her throat refused to accept air. Poor girl. I stripped her naked, donning her blue outfit. I set her on the toilet -- quite disgusting as it had overflowed with water -- her feet on the ground. I pulled out a little mirror from my purse and wiped off my makeup. I studied her face for a little bit, before drawing her age lines on me.
I shoved my clothes for Mrs. Quinter into my purse, before slithering under the stall with it. I straightened up, and moved to the mirror, fixing my hair. "Stupid lock," I muttered. I didn't bother glancing back at the closed stall, even though a few women did when I'd wiggled out under it.
I helped an old lady find her flight gate when she stopped me in the corridor. She was so sweet, asking me if I had a husband. "Yes, his name is Joe." Do we get along? "Love at first sight." She mentioned that that was just lovely. I agreed full heartedly with her.
I moved back to "my" desk after escorting the lady. I excused the person who "I" had asked to take over while I dealt with that annoying woman and her toilet problem.
I pulled out the tickets I had bought one by one, and scanned them into the computer. Each and every person boarding their flight, even if their flight hadn't arrived yet, well they were already on it. I dropped the tickets into the trash after ripping them into a million pieces. I didn't bother to ask anyone to watch the desk; airports generally suck with communication anyway. I walked quickly with my back away from the desk, leaving my suitcase and backpack.
I moved to my real gate, E12 heading to Philadelphia.
I only had to wait thirty minutes before the flight began loading, with first class of course. I headed in with my flight attendant outfit, hurrying back to the bathroom before anyone could interrupt me. Off came the flight attendant outfit, and on went Mrs. Quinter's wardrobe. I'd taken them right from her closet twelve hours ago. I quickly etched the makeup back on, remembering the lines I'd drawn before for Anna's face. I stuffed the flight attendant suit into the purse, and hurried to my spot as the first of coach boarded.
First class really was a nice place. There were plush seats and large armrests, blankets and pillows. What more could someone hope for on a six hour flight?
I settled into my seat by the window, pulling out the list of names I had bought the tickets under.
Hillary Marth.
I crossed her name off. Dead.
Jack Roth.
I checked his name. He had a day left to live. They'd probably check up on him after the explosion, but you know, of course he'd be dead.
Pat Dan.
I checked his name. He got in a car crash, poor him. I'd cut the breaks and made sure to leave my prints around.
Linda France.
I crossed off her name. She'd hung "herself" in her basement. A poor lonely girl I had stalked for two days.
Joelle Miles.
I checked her name. Her passport had just disappeared. Too many close friends, but she had almost the exact same face as mine.
Julie Carboy.
I crossed off her name. Poor woman, her dog had mauled her in her sleep. Well, at least that's what it looked like.
Kyle Komar.
I crossed him off. I killed him with a knife, slitting his wrists.
Janice LaPort.
I checked her name. I'd cut the power at her house, thinking she would die because she was on life support. I'd performed a newbie mistake, not realizing there was a backup generator. It would take a day for them to search the house and find out what I'd stolen.
Garth Smith.
I crossed off his name. He'd be thought missing, until they found his body inside the school he worked at, sitting upright in his classroom. On the board behind him, I'd written a list of names, well, this list. And when they find those people with my mark, they'll run a check under those names. Oh fun, them trying to decide what flight I'd gotten on, when all the flights had the names registered in them. Then came the last name, the best name.
Anna Quinter.
I paused, my pen raised just above her name. Anna, Anna... Quinter. They'd run a check for her name soon enough. She died next to her little girl. I didn't rip their hearts out, even though it would've been so symbolic. It would be too redundant. I needed something more... out there.
Sid wouldn't come home for at least a week. The poor Jonas family had contacted him to go on tour with them, thinking he could predict my movements or something. Yeah, not true. He called his family every day, so, acting right after Anna hung up the phone I had exactly twenty-four hours until anything I did would be known.
I suffocated them first, so their bodies could be mine to play with. I took off their clothes and carefully set them aside on the bed. Their skin was still warm to the touch then. I turned Anna over, pulling her silvery hair into an elaborate braid. I wanted her beautiful in her death. I pushed the hair off her back, and picked up my knife. I didn't need a picture to sketch what I wanted to. The image was burned into my little ragdoll mind.
I drew the eyes the way I had seen them last in my mind, dull and lifeless. I pulled his face from the skin, red seeping here and there. I wiped the blood away with the sheets. Then came his body. In my picture his ribs showed, and he had the gash on his shoulder. I didn't bother wiping the blood that dribbled from there. His arm hung limply at his side, but in it was a heart. A beautiful, oozing heart. I dressed her back up and turned Anna to lie on her back, fixing her hair.
I moved to the daughter. Her hair I'd swept away from her back. I didn't bother braiding it or anything; she looked more beautiful with the hair fanning out around her head. I carved a simple heart on her back, the type that all kids draw in school as if that type of heart means something. I wiggled the little girl back into her pajamas. I turned her over, arranging her hair in a halo around her face. I'd come back with makeup and drew color back into their cheeks. I painted them until they looked like Barbie dolls, perfect only in death. I settled a book over Anna's chest, as if she had read and fallen asleep.
I'd washed my hands, grabbed some clothes, her passport, and credit cards, and I'd left.
That was twelve hours ago.
I crossed her off my list.
"Nephew." I jumped, crushing the list in my hand and spinning in my seat. "Or should I say, niece? Though I must say you look a little older than I now."
"Mrs. Johnson," I replied. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Really? Is that so, I assumed you were running away, and therefore, would not enjoy my company."
I snorted. "I'm going to finish, don't worry. All this, well, you wouldn't understand. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all."
"Surprised you haven't been caught yet."
"I am the best."
She fell silent, and I studied her. She pulled off her wide brim hat and smoothed back her bun. White leather gloves encased her hands. She looked more alive than I had seen her only, what? About a year or so ago? When you get older, shouldn't you become duller; more wrinkled and dead?
"How did you find me?" I finally asked, really not liking her sitting next to me.
She hesitated before answering, too much of a hesitation to be truth. "Oh, by luck. I was heading to Pennsylvania myself for the Jonas Brother's concert."
"Why?"
"I'd bet you'd show up there, so I decided to fly over to watch you finish the job. No doubt now that you're here you will."
I think she thought the silence peaceful. I really didn't like it, not one bit. I could tell she hated me, hated Joe, pretty much hated everything around her. I couldn't figure out one thing she liked. She pulled out "Ice Man" to read for the six hour flight. I looked at the back cover. It was a true story of a criminal in the mafia. An interesting read, I guessed, especially for someone like her who... hated everything. I read over her shoulder on a page. The narrator gave an in-depth description of a certain kill Ica Man had made. He'd tied up his victims and stuck them in a cave of rats. He left the man alive and let a tape record the action. After a week, the man would be nothing but bones, maybe not even those left. Ice Man would pick up the tape from the cave with the rats and sit at home wth a bucket of popcorn eating as he watched the rats devour the man who screamed and screamed and screamed.
"He was a good friend of mine." I glanced up at Mrs. Johnson.
"Really?"
"I'm not in here though. Like a good friend, he kept my name hidden. You see, I'm too old for these sorts of things. My mind isn't as creative enough, sharp enough. But no one expects a lady to be doing dirty work."
She set her book on her lap and pulled off her gloves. I looked the pads of her fingers, completely burned of prints. Dad had done that too, but never did the same to me. "That doesn't do much good anymore," I observed.
"Oh, but back in the day, it was the thing. All the cops were checking fingerprints, almost forgetting about how to solve cases other ways. They didn't know DNA like they do now."
“It’s bad strategy too. If you wanted them to chase you or try to track you, how would you tell them without making it obvious that's what you wanted to happen and sending out a red flag?"
Mrs. Johnson tapped the side of her nose. "We only ever wanted to melt in. Standing out and labeling work, if you can get away with it, makes you one of the best. But then you're always being chased, always on the run. Stupid, but amazing if someone can handle it." She pulled out a card, handing it over to me. "It's a form of a debit card. I put half the cash in it for the job and it's untraceable. I'll put the other half in when you kill Joe, if you do manage to get close enough to him without getting caught. But what you've managed to do with him and his family is amazing." She winked at me. I took my card and she settled back into her book. We sat in silence for the rest of the flight, and every moment I planned, thinking out scenarios.
The flight arrived a little ahead of schedule and to forty degree weather, not counting the wind chill. Texas might get cold at night, but apparently Pennsylvania was cold all day.
Mrs. Johnson exited a little before me, her hat bobbing up and down on her head. She rolled a little suitcase behind her, white gloved hand grasping the handle. I lengthened my strides until I'd matched hers.
"Can I help you?" she muttered. Her lips unreadable by any camera because of her hat.
I bowed my head so my hair would hide my words. "How did you know it was me?"
She didn't even glance at me. To anyone looking at the pair of us, well, they'd assume the lady with the funny hat was talking to herself. "Your father." I gritted my teeth. "He came to me after he got rid of you and your mother. He told me about the eye; it swerves sometimes on its own. You normally catch when it’s about to happen and change your whole line of sight so the movement is hidden. I think it's just a sub-conscious action as of now. I remember your father saying he beat you every time he noticed it. He thought telling me he beat a child gained him something. Not all of us all like him. More of us are like... you, but older and more cautious."
"You did --"
"I left him to my Ice Man when he played me to get caught. He always was afraid of rats. If we ever do business again, I'll hand you over the tape."
She lengthened her strides to leave me behind. I grinned. I grinned nice and big.
I changed clothes before leaving the airport. I changed into a nice pair of jeans and a clingy shirt. All I did was switch around my makeup and I didn't look like Tristan except for clothes. I shoved toilet paper down my legs to make them look fatter. I pulled out a baseball cap, pulling it low over my face. I tugged on a pair of boots and stride out of the bathroom.
I made my way into a library first where the computers were free to use. I found the Jonas Brother's tour schedule and, thanks to fan sites, all the interviews they'd have for the next three days in the city. Really, I would imagine the fans wanted me to kill Joe; they made it all too easy. I even found their hotel without breaking a sweat. And that's the hotel I booked.
In all its classy glory, I checked myself in. It took a little sweet talking, because apparently I looked too trashy for the hotel. But I had the money, so what could they do? Discriminate?
I slept for the rest of the day.
I woke up at seven the next morning. Three days until the Jonas Brothers performed. Three days and so much to do.
I turned on the news (TV in the bathroom thank you very much) and took a nice long bath. My name and picture popped up so many times. "Be on the lookout for Tristan." I sank into the suds, moaning. "He could be under the names of..." The water felt so good on my body. "Killed ten people within a span of two days." It had been too long since I'd had time to relax like this. "No one is safe." I could feel the dirt and grime disappearing off of me. "What is Joe Jonas to do?" Who knew a bath could feel so good? "The concert has not been cancelled." My poor aching muscles finally received their well earned break. "Joe Jonas and family state that they're not afraid." I arched my back in the water, before pulling my dripping body out of the tub. "Extra security has been added to their team, even for the waiting lines for their concert." I wrapped a towel around myself, carefully stepping so as not to slip on the tile.
I pulled on the dirty clothes I had worn the night before. I left the purse in the safe. If someone came in to clean my room, I didn't think finding credit cards under different names would be the best thing in the world. I put the card from Mrs. Johnson into my pocket -- the only thing I needed -- and headed out the door.
I walked around the shopping area, trying on different clothes, thinking about how to dress. Dress like myself, dress differently? I found boots I loved (a thousand two hundred dollars), a pair of skinny jeans that were easy enough to move in (four hundred seventy-nine dollars), a shirt that looked like the one I had borrowed for that party where I'd kissed Garbo (seven hundred fifty dollars), a pretty sapphire tie (fifty dollars), and a blue tongue ring to match it (forty dollars). The whole cost rounded up to barely a billionth of the money Mrs. Johnson had put in the account for me. I also bought a few pairs of clothes that didn't cost quite as much for everyday wear (about a thousand dollars an outfit) and all new makeup (each product from sixty to eighty dollars).
Then came a thousand dollar laptop that I would only use for these three days.
I paid a porter to take all my bags up. He came with me in the elevator. I tossed around the idea of bringing him in the room with me. A good fuck would be nice, very nice... But then I let the idea go. He didn't have quite the right color hair I wanted. I tipped him three hundred and a kiss on the cheek. He took all my clothes to be washed too, such a doll of him. I dead bolted the hotel door behind me.
I sat on my bed, ordered room service, Googled the blueprints for the venue Joe would be performing at, checked what had happened with them today in screaming fan videos, ordered a ticket online to be sent to my hotel room, painted my nails black, watched the news, and planned everything out. I got my clothes back before I fell asleep. When I woke up, I had two days left until the performance.
I pushed my hair up under a hat and dulled the lines on my face with makeup, and I headed out again. I took the stairs this time, passing by the Jonas Brother's floor. I caught a glimpse of Nick, pushing on sunglasses and going to the elevator. I made a clicking noise in the back of my throat. No Joe to be seen. I moved out onto the street, wrapping the duster I had bought yesterday around myself.
I went to store after store. Some I don't think were there legally, or at least selling legal things. Butterfly knives aren't legal, yet there seemed to be one in three out of fives shops I looked at knives for. My hands, boney and long, fingered every knife I came across. I tried the weight and balance. I looked at the size and the ordainment all over them. I thought about how easy they would be to hide, how hard it would be to cut out a heart with them. Everything mattered; the knife had to be perfect.
I found the perfect one after I'd spent the whole day searching. It rested in a little pawn shop that held all these strange things. Everything seemed to be layered in a coat of dust, and the owner looked to have his own light dusting. The knife sized about the height of my hand. The blade was straight and already sharpened, about an inch or two wide. There was no ordainment on the little ivory handle, except for a small etched hear. Beautiful. The guy wanted thirty bucks for it. I got him to bring the amount down to twenty, even if I'd price it at a thousand or more.
Then the day was finished, and I slept.
I took a quick shower and stopped by at the front desk to pick up my ticket before heading out. I followed the boys and their screaming girls all day, watching how Joe moved. His shoulder still hadn't healed. I watched from across the street as he got in the van, and the minute he thought no one could see him, he'd start rubbing his shoulder, slightly more lumpy than normal from gauze. I clapped my hand to my mouth to hold back a giggle. Easy prey. Easy prey.
I spun away, Joe's eyes turning to look at the other side of the street. There were screaming girls yes, but what about me? Poor little ol' me, who watched but did nothing? I hurried along the street, heading to their venue to wait in line with all the other girls. I had five hours to wait, five hours to kill. I wore a hoodie over my expansive shirt and tie, my hands threaded through the pocket. I kept the hood up, which made it much easier to keep from being recognized. I'd applied the makeup I'd always worn around Joe, my nails coal black. I paraded around in the high boots and most girls complimented me on them as they passed.
But they didn't know how I could feel the cool knife press into my skin with every step, every shift of my weight. It fit so comfortably inside.
I could see my breath in the air, cold in November. When the sun set, and we still waited in line, I could see everyone's breath from the streetlights casting their glow. Up and down the line security walked, reminding me of good Bodyguard Cookie. Police cars pulled up a while later, and a shiver ran through me. I licked my lips, chapping in the cold air. Were they there as only a precaution to fans attacking each other, or did the Jonas' know I was here?
The venue started to allow ticket holders in an hour before the show would start. I imagined Joe and his brothers in their little back room, whispering together and trying to calm nerves. Garbo and the rest of the band would go in thirty minutes before, and they'd have their powwow with God. Silly God, you didn't tell Joe to look out for me. You didn't heal him fast enough. He'd be so weak, weak enough for a ragdoll to kill.
I stepped through the metal detector, handing them my ticket. The detector went off, and they looked me over. I flashed my tongue piercing at them and they let me through, even though technically that small of a piece of metal shouldn't set it off. One of the things the reporters on the news had said was that I wouldn't be stupid enough to wear a tongue piercing. Well, guess who was Mr. Stupid? Guess who got into the venue?
Fans pressed in all around me, ignoring anything their parents might've taught them about body space. I didn't go to my seat, but rather to the room in the front. I wanted to be as close to the stage as possible. I wanted to feel the heat coming off of Joe. I took off the sweatshirt, too warm for me inside. A girl next to me smiled. "Like the tie."
"Love the hair," I said back. She had blonde hair, blonde hair like me.
The concert started, and I watched Joe. I watched how he still hung by the microphone stand instead of heading off to dance around. I listened to the songs I remember him practicing with me. I put my hands up with all the other girls. I screamed like them, and lunged at the stage with them. And then I listened to my song. He still played my song even though I'd stuck a hole in his shoulder, wasn't that sweet? He closed his eyes when he started to sing, and I rested my hands by my side, watching. He swayed to the music, and I swayed with him. He'd sung the song once back at his house with his hands on my hips, moving us back and forth together. I hummed along with the rest of the stadium.
Then he took the microphone out of the stand and started moving around the spinning stage. He sung to the different girls, and then he turned and he sung to me.
He froze, the lyrics stuck in his throat, my lyrics. I grinned and he swallowed. "Tristan?" My name sounded like the sweetest thing ever the way he said. The way he said it sounding so lost, helpless, and confused.
Nick's eyes flashed to follow Joe's gaze. He drank in my figure, standing perfectly still. "Joe!" he shouted.
"Boo," I mouthed.
Screaming erupted. Not the screaming of fans for their pretty boys, but screaming in fear. People started to run from each other, they didn't know where to go. I watched Joe disappear off the stage, skin losing all its color.
"Oh my God," the girl next to me gasped, the one who had the pretty blonde hair just like mine. I pushed past the people, screaming and trying to get out. But they couldn't get out; they ran around too hysterical to think straight; chickens without their heads. Backstage would be a mess too, I knew that well enough. I also knew hysterics let me do whatever. I'd all but disappeared into the crowd. Dad had taught me so well; he'd taught me well with the beatings and the raping. It was as if no one could see me. No one paid me any mind, even though I had the hair and dressed like I had before I'd started to run again; even though I was recognizable to all.
I moved backstage, and I was invisible. People with mics were shouting things; people without mics were shouting things. Most did a half run-walk, attempting to create the illusion of having the situation under control. But they didn't. I caught sight of Denise, Paul, and Frankie. Frankie turned just in time to see me. His eyes locked with mine, fear and panic in them. He opened his mouth to scream, but I was already gone.
I hurried down hallways, knife biting my skin. I found a greenroom half open, and I smiled. Inside was Joe, sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. I slid into the room, closing and locking the door behind me. He didn't look up. I leaned back against the locked door with a smile. The greenroom had walls painted a calming eggshell color. There were two couches, both matching leather. A desk sat in the corner with a lamp on it. Overhead the ceiling fan shined on us.
Money is good and all, but, you know, killing is better.
"Hey." I watched Joe. I watched him raise his head to me. I watched him straighten up. I watched as his bones dug through his skin tight shirt. I watched him wince at the pain from his shoulder.
"Why are you here?"
"Oh, oh, oh," I said smoothly. I brushed my hand along the door. "Let's not jump there all of a sudden. Aren't you glad to see me?" I pushed off the door, taking a step closer to Joe.
"You ruined a show for thousands of fans."
I snorted, shaking my head. "No, I didn't. You did. I did nothing but stand and watch. You're the one who ruined it. You're the one who ruined it with saying my name and running off the stage. Don't start mixing facts with me." I watched Joe, swallowing and looking as if he wanted to vomit. "So, how you've been?"
"Stop," he snapped at me. I rolled my eyes. Stop he said. He said stop to me as if it would do something, as if I was doing something.
"Stop what?" I questioned. I moved closer to him.
"How could you do that to Sid?" he demanded, ignoring my question. So sweet of him.
"He deserved it," I sniffed back. "He broke his confidentiality, and I did warn him."
"So that justifies it?"
I shrugged. "I think so. I warned him, and even told him how to keep it from happening: teach Anna to use a gun and always stay with them. He went and partied with you. He didn't deserve a life with her; they were too good for him."
He scoffed. "Because everyone deserves what you do to them deep down."
"I did tell you that once, and why yes, I do agree with it still. You still deserve to die, but I know why now Joe. I know why."
"Why?"
"Everything you've done to me. You've killed so many people Joe."
"I never --"
"But let's not talk about that. I'll tell you about all my days if you'll tell me about yours."
"What do you mean I killed --"
"I remember sewing myself up with a needle and thread. That was an interesting time. Oh, and I remember slicing up some people, hanging a few... I also remember sleeping on the cold, wet ground. If you don't tell me about yours, I'll tell you for you."
"Go away." He pushed himself off the couch with some effort.
I rolled my eyes. "Is there something you don't understand here? You have absolutely no power with me. It's me and you in a room. You don't have anything." Joe looked at me. "Okay, let me tell you about your days then. You did everything I did. Realize that. You can realize nothing else, as long as you realize this. When I killed someone, you killed them too. I killed them because of you, for you. Don't you understand that?" I reached forward, grabbing his hands in mine. He tried to yank away, but he couldn't, too weak from the lack of food, sleep, blood, healing. "See how strong my love is? I kill people for you, because of you."
He sneered at me. "That's disgusting."
"Maybe so, I don't know really. My idea of disgusting is distorted to yours. I consider living in sewers disgusting, horrifying with no light or human contact. Really, truly and honestly, I think killing isn't as bad compared so." Silence fell between us. His hands grew sweaty in mine. I leaned close to his ear, and he didn't even try to pull away.
That's my good boy. If I was a ragdoll controlling this boy, then what was this boy?
"I hear people outside. I hear their footsteps and I know they're looking for you. It's the pattern of steps, the criss-crossing lost ones." I paused, thinking, listening to shouts in the hallway. "Why didn't you say anything to the police about me?" I took a step back, dropping Joe's hands. He crossed his arms looking away from me.
"I... I -- Tristan..."
"Tell me why, even as you had dreams of me coming back and killing your family, your friends." He snapped his head back to me. I chuckled. "Really? Really?! Of all the things you wonder about me, you wonder about how I knew that?"
"Shut up," he seethed. I chuckled. I reached out, running a finger down the side of his face. He jerked away from me. "I don't know why I didn't. I was stupid, obviously. I was stupid about --" He cut himself off.
I chuckled, with humor or not, I didn't know. "Me." I finished his sentence. "You were stupid about me. Because, dear God, this is so funny. You thought you loved me." I laughed in his face. "You thought you had to look out for me, your little --"
I gasped, Joe's fist swinging into my gut. I flinched back, and he hit me again. He slammed his elbow into my face. I hissed, and he punched me to the ground. I lashed back, throwing him off his feet. I pushed myself to my feet, and I grabbed him by his bad shoulder. I yanked him up and I slammed him into the wall. I had his neck in my hand, my whole body bracing him against the wall.
"Don't. Move. Move and I'll kill you." My tongue darted out, licking some of my blood as it trailed down my face.
"Aren't you going to do that anyway?" he shot back.
"People can die when they're so fucked up with grief."
We breathed hard, staring at each other. Joe didn't move. A body slammed into the door and I jerked away from Joe. His eyes locked with mine, fearful. For himself? Whoever hit the door? I yanked him around to the other side of the room.
"I am either going to kill you, or whoever comes through that door," I hissed. I easily slid the knife out of my boot. I pressed it to his throat, forcing myself not to hear the pounding on the door. Feeling pressure from time didn't help anything. It only made people sloppy. "Make a decision fast boy."
"Me."
"Very noble."
He looked straight at me. "I want your makeup off," his voice cracked in the middle.
"Lick it off then," I snarled.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard --" I cut myself off, startled. Joe's tongue grazed over my cheek first. Wet and warm. His tongue spun around my skin. I closed my eyes, and he took off the eyeliner, the eye shadow. He titled his head up lap up the blood from my face.
"I'm sorry about that..." he whispered too soft for the words meant to be heard.
I opened my eyes when he licked the corner of my lips. His eyes were closed, his breathing soft.
"Lip gloss?" he muttered. I brushed my lips against his for barely a second. The door crashed against the wall. I snapped my eyes open. Joe's eyes flashed. I stuffed my hand into his pocket, pulling out the metal heart.
"You took it back," I said.
"Always yours." A murmur on the wind as the necklace swung like a pendulum in my hand.
Someone grabbed me. I screamed, flashing the knife. It plunged into a neck, and I wrenched it out, my hair distorting my view. Two, three, four more people. I tightened my hold on the metal heart. Mine. Someone latched onto my arm. I started to stab them. "No!" I froze. I looked down, the little body wrapped around my arm."No, please no." Frankie. Another person grasped my arm. I kicked back, slamming them in the gut. The metal heart slid from my fist. I struggled to get rid of Frankie. I kicked him and he recoiled. I heard his body thud onto the floor. Someone yanked on my hair, and I spun, slicing their stomach. I shrieked, someone wrapping their hands around my waist. My arms were grabbed, my wrist twisted until I dropped the knife. Cool cuffs snapped around my wrist. My head snapped down. I breathed in and out, faster and faster.
"Tristan," I heard the quiet sob from Frankie. I didn't look at him. I looked at Joe. He sat hunched over on the floor, his legs pulled up to his chin. He breathed in time with me, fast and short. His eyes squeezed shut as if in pain.
They wrenched me away. "Wait," Joe stopped them. He looked up, his hair falling in front of his eyes. "He can get out of those." He didn't look at me, he looked at the guards. I snarled, kicking out to one of the fallen bodies, getting blood on my boots. They let go of my hands for just a second, and I was out of them. I threw a punch at the man who yanked at my hair. He shouted, covering his nose. I kicked him. I kicked him once and he went down. I kicked him again and again on the ground. Each time my leather boot slid in more blood. I twisted around to another guard who tried to jump at me. I yanked my knife out of his pocket, and he fell right on top of it. Then the next guy fell in his friend's blood. I stabbed my heel into his neck with a grunt, done.
No one left to fight me.
Frankie had curled himself up on the floor. Poor boy, scared of me.
I knelt down in front of Joe. "Look at me," I snarled. Joe's eyes stayed unfocused on the corner of the room. I grabbed his chin, and I jerked it to me. Blood from his guards slid down from my hands to his shirt. I gave him a sweet kiss. He didn't kiss me back, he felt so lifeless in my hands. I pulled back, nipping at his lip. I twisted his head to look at the bodies. "See them?" I asked. He said nothing. "See them? You did that to them. If you didn't say anything, they might still be alive. If you didn't --"
The safety clicked off on a gun. I cocked my head, dropping away from Joe. "Move away from the man." I swiveled up onto my feet. I took a step forward, looking at the man with the gun.
"Boy," I corrected. "Joe's only a boy."
"Put your hands up in the air."
"This happened to my dad once," I told him. I raised my hands, flipping the knife around. "And, there were four people, not just one. And he needed to get out, so he threw the knife, and impaled the guy. Then he pulled it out, and attacked the other three at the neck, because you have almost no padding there. My dad taught me everything he knew. I'm better at everything than he was."
"Put the knife down." Another guy came into view, the red sniper dot appearing on my skin. Then came two more. I looked at them, their eyes hidden behind their mask. There was no other way out of the room, just that door. No window. This room was so dreary.
"Why do you never talk back in a humane way?" The knife clattered to the ground. I tilted my head to the side, staring at them.
They came in a wave, more than the four I'd thought there were, dashing through the door. They tackled me to the ground, sliding on cuffs. Some helped up Joe, others coaxed Frankie to uncurl. I kept my head up.
I locked eyes with Joe right before they took me out of the room. He struggled to his feet, staring at me. He stretched his arm straight out, the metal heart swinging from his hand. "I hate you," he said. He let the necklace go. I didn't see it hit the ground, but I heard the crash, the breaking.
Only cheap metal breaks like that.
~*~