The Kill

Frank and Gerard originally planned to leave that night until the inn keeper warned them of the 'murderers'. Frank let out a tiny giggle and Gerard retained his laughter and covered it with a sly smirk.

The inn keeper was an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a loose, sloppy bun and piercing blue eyes. Her face was wrinkled and she was short, wearing a stained grey hoodie. She was needless to say, adorable. Old people are adorable in strange ways.

"You young men shouldn't leave yet," she warned in a sweet, warmly voice. "The murderers might catch you."

Gerard leaned across the counter and raised an eyebrow. "Murderers, you say," he repeated. He grabbed one of the faux waxed fruits that were in the decorative bowl on the counter and tossed it in his hand. The old woman watched closely with interest.

"Oh yes," she said. "They murdered a man in town last night. It was on the news." Her eyes widened. "You saw the report, right?"

"Perhaps," Frank chimed in. "We've been researching a lot of murders lately."

"That's a morbid thing to do," the woman stated.

"We're reporters," Frank lied. The words rolled off his tongue, as artificially sweet as the faux apple Gerard was palming. Gerard was impressed, even though he knew that Frank was great at lying. "We work for a news website. Just posting a few articles here and there."

"Oh, well you seem like such splendid young men," she said, smiling. "I'd hate to see you both get killed." She stepped from behind the desk and shooed them back to their room with their luggage. "Beware for the murderers. I'll pray for you both."

Frank nodded and Gerard slammed the door. He snorted. "Pray? As if." He flopped on the bed, spread out like a star. "God could give a shit less about monsters like us."

"There isn't any rest for the wicked," Frank retorted, sitting on top of him. "We're all fifty shades fucked sideways." He leaned over Gerard, his dark hair pooling into his eyes.

Gerard hooked his pinky in Frank's. "I know," he replied softly. "We all go to hell." He kissed Frank's nose. "But maybe it's already here."

"Hell is other people," Frank replied, quoting Shakespeare.

Gerard grinned sickly. "Yes it is. Yes it is." He sat up, face-to-face with Frank.

"Speaking of such, isn't your mother's birthday coming up?" Frank asked Gerard.

Gerard's expression darkened. "Indeed. I've much work to do." He kissed Frank softly. "Move."

Frank rolled off of him and watched Gerard open his suitcase to retrieve a notebook and pen. "I will be writing," he declared. "Don't bother me unless necessary."

Frank nodded and laid back on the bed, eyes closed.

Mama, we all go to hell,

I'm writing this letter, wishing you well. But you lied.
Mama, we're all full of lies. We're meant for the flies. They built a coffin your size. We all go to hell because as Shakespeare quoted, Hell is other people. So you're a liar and you're probably in hell, too.

There's shit that I've done with this fuck of a gun. You'd cry if only you knew. If only you knew...

But you never will because you are deceased and rotting.

Your less-than-loved son,
Gerard Arthur Way

Gerard looked the letter over and smiled at his work. Worthy of Edgar Allen Poe himself, he thought. He balled up the letter and found his lighter and lit it. He smiled at the flames and stomped them out eventually. Frank watched in interest.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Bittersweet," Gerard replied. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

"Bad night," Frank replied, smirking.

Notes

Ermmm....I like pie. That is all.