This Is How I Disappear

“I won’t, huh?” red-head asks almost sweetly. His deadly smile appears.

“I…” I fumble, backing up, and tripping over my own feet. Falling gracefully on my butt, I scoot away from red-head’s advancing form and brave the sticky floor.

“You…what?” he taunts, standing over me so I have no where to retreat to.

I blubber something about his obviously high moral standards, and how he wouldn’t want to sully them over something so trivial. Red-head nods along with my points, then crouches down by my head. “One million dollars isn’t trivial, Frank,” he says seriously.

“But murdering me despite the utter nonexistence of it kind of is,” I allow my brain to retort directly.

“Murdering y—murder isn’t trivial,” he stutters with a frown.

I sit up carefully, now that he isn’t smiling gruesomely anymore. “You could’ve fooled me,” I reply, inflectionless.

His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking. I stay silent as he does. Finally, red-head stands and offers me his hand, which I couldn’t refuse if he held a knife in the other. He pulls me to my feet and right into his chest. His angelic face is inches from mine as he levels a glare at me. “You stay here. You’re my captive. Got it?”

I nod, because it’s not like I can speak when he’s this close to me. When he pulls away, he moves his hand to my shoulder and leads me to the couch, flicking on the news again. My face happens to be showing, along with the three dead thugs. Our names are printed across the bottom of the pictures while the newscaster juggles theories and facts.

“Now,” red-head says, sitting us down on the short couch, “what’s wrong with this picture?”

His leg is touching mine, I tell my brain urgently, who replies with, I know. “Um,” I respond to red-head, “my face is on the news with a trio of dead guys?”

“No,” red-head says slowly. “Look closer.”

But, HIS LEG IS TOUCHING MINE! I hiss distractedly. Answer his question if you don’t want to look like an idiot, my brain advises.

“I…” I gamble, “look stupid in that photo?”

“You don’t look stupid,” red-head protests, then gets back on topic. “No, look at the words on the screen,” he prompts.

I read the scrolling at the bottom: “Police are baffled by the lack of evidence in either of the simultaneously committed crimes—”

“The names!” red-head interrupts impatiently.

I look at the thugs’ names. “Ronald Garcia, Freddie Roark, and Martin Roark. What about—?”

I am cut off by the remote controller bopping me not-so-lightly on the forehead. “Ow!” I complain.

“I had to find out your name from the news!” red-head fumes.

“Ow. Oh,” I mumble, perplexed. He wanted to know my name? Why didn’t he just ask? I wonder.

Maybe he was nervous, my brain suggests, and I mentally slap it.

Stop encouraging me, I scold it as hope flares through me.

“I let you sleep in my room while I’m out all night covering your tracks, and you don’t even tell me your name?” red-head demands, annoyance clear in his tone.

“Yeah, covering up for the person you originally framed for the murders,” I remind him.

“You are so ungrateful,” red-head snaps. “Do your parents just let you do whatever you want?”

I roll my eyes. “And now you’ve apparently kidnapped me for ransom,” I grumble. “What am I supposed to be grateful for, exactly?”

“For saving your life,” red-head growls, and then he’s up off the couch and stalking to the bedroom.

This novel idea hits me with the force of a train. He did save my life, I marvel. If he hadn’t come running by, I would have killed myself. Or chickened out, and returned to a life not worth living. Then what? I’d try again later. So, oddly enough, this red-headed murderer and now captor is my salvation.

I amble shyly over to the closed bedroom door, and knock softly.

“What?” he grumbles in agitation from behind the door. I turn the knob, and slip into the room. I’m about to speak when I see him standing by the bed without a shirt. Oh, man, I whimper helplessly to my brain. Uh-huh, my brain agrees, apparently having turned to mush. He’s…. I can’t even finish the thought. Mmm, my brain replies, for lack of a better word.

“What?” red-head repeats as I try and fail to avert my eyes.

I cough into my hand, hoping my blush doesn’t show. “I just…” I attempt to tell him, but my voice wobbles. I clear my throat and focus only on his face, which is surprisingly difficult, despite how gorgeous his face is. But that body… my brain moans. Not helping, I tell it stiffly. “I just wanted to apologize for how petulant I was being. You’re right. You did save my life. I didn’t realize it before. So…thanks.” I let out a breath and struggle not to look down from his hazel eyes.

He quirks his lip almost unnoticeably. “My pleasure.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets and nod awkwardly. Red-head watches my internal battle. He’ll see if you look, my brain tells me. Who cares? I ask, eyes watering from staring so intently at his eyes.

Finally, red-head speaks. “I’ll be sleeping.” My eyes can’t be controlled any longer and run down the length of his body reverently. Blushing, I nod once and quickly turn away, leaving the room and closing the door behind me. He didn’t see that, did he? I panic.

I don’t know. I’m not him, my brain replies in all helpfulness.

I sigh. What do I do all day?

Watch the news? my brain suggests.

Oh, yeah, a nice, relaxing activity.

And not watching it is less stressful to you, my brain concludes dubiously.

I flop onto the couch and turn my attention to the newscaster.

“The police are now saying for certain that the two crimes are connected, but aren’t so open on how they are. Missing teen Frank Iero’s family has yet to receive any ransom instructions. Is it because he is the killer? Find out more with our up-to-date coverage. My name is Elizabeth Brown, and we’ll be right back after the break.”

Yes, I tell my brain, I think not watching it would have been less stressful.

“Hey!” I yelp, running to the bedroom. “Hey, er, Tomato-Head!”

“What now?” he groans, sleepily.

“You need to make a phone call!”