Kill Your Darlings

"Amen," Mikey said and an enormous sob erupted from his throat. Pete was laying in his arms, bloodied and dying, and it was because of him. He had done this to him.

All at once, Pete's breathing became shallow, the slow trickle of blood from his neck ceased flowing, and his grip on Mikey's bloody shirt loosened. His eyes, though still open, no longer showed their familiar sparkle. Mikey could only wail and clutch Pete's head to his chest. "No, no, no," Mikey chanted, his words slurred by his heavy wails. "Come back! Pete, come back, please!"

"Stop your whining, Michael," William said roughly, the door hinges creaking as he came back in, and dragged Mikey behind where Pete's body laid.

"Why did you make me kill him?" Mikey seethed, standing up to tower over William. "I loved him. He was my everything."

If Mikey wasn't so preoccupied with pleading with William, he would noticed Pete's breathing come back, slowly at first, but getting back to its normal speed; he would have noticed Pete's eyes turn the color of a ruby; he would have noticed Pete's canines sharpen and elongate so that they pressed at his full bottom lip.

"I did not make you kill him," William said carefully, quieting his voice so that Pete wouldn't hear him. He glanced behind him, at the door and turned back to Mikey. He loosened his tie, taking it off, as he said: "Let us leave."

Before Mikey could protest, William grabbed Mikey's shoulders and spun him around to face Pete, then wrapped his tie around Mikey's mouth like a gag. He grabbed Mikey'a hands, pulling them behind him, and his grip tightened as Mikey tried to yell. His voice was muffled by the fabric of the tie, though, and his shout was nothing more than a small grunt. The door slightly ajar, he dragged Mikey soundlessly out of the room. The only sound came from the door slamming, and Pete crying out in surprise.

He sat up and looked around the room; it was exactly the same as he remembered it, except he now laid in a pool of thick, dark red liquid. His shirt, pants, hair, everything had been saturated by the warm stuff and Pete shuddered as he felt a trail of warmness trickle down his neck and inbetween his shoulder blades.

Then, he became curiously aware of the smell. The blood didn't smell metallic anymore; instead, it now had a scent that Pete could only describe as appetizing. No, Pete scolded himself. This is your blood.

Pete stood up slowly on shaking legs, like a deer fawn, and slowly padded over to the door. "Hello?" He ventured, pressing his ear against the door to try to listen for a response. None came. "Is anyone out there?" He asked, knocking slightly. Still no answer.

His steely resolve was gone, and he leaned against the door, burying his face in his hands and sobbing. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the cold hardwood floor and let his whimpers shake his body. I should be dead, he thought, not held captive in a strange basement, bleeding from a place on my... Neck. His thought faltered as he made a sudden realization, and his hands flew up to prod at the wound. It was just like the one Mikey gave him months ago, when Pete let him feed: two small puncture wounds in his jugular vein.

Then, he slowly ran his tongue over his teeth, gasping when it came into contact with the sharp point of his fang. He shot his head up and looked at the pool of blood, all of the prices coming together.

He placed his hand over his heart. He knew from experience with Mikey that the organ should be unmoving, and that there shouldn't be any sort of movement from the chest area at all. His fingertips laid on his chest for only a second before he came to a conclusion: his heart was still.

His heart was still. He was bleeding, but alive. He had fangs. Everything led to one startling cessation: he was like Mikey now.

He knew that his anger shouldn't be directed at Mikey; rather, it should be William. Mikey made a vow to protect Pete, which backfired on him when William found a loophole in his words. William then used Mikey to hurt Pete; going around what Mikey said, but still getting what he wanted. It was William who he should hate. Loophole.

Why did William hate him, though? The only reason Pete could figure was that William wasn't supportive of the way Mikey and Pete lived, and wanted Pete dead because of it. He couldn't kill Mikey, because Mikey was near impossible to kill, but mortals were like eggshells compared to vampires; they broke so easily, and it didn't take long to break them.

Pete wiped his nose on the back of his hand and stood up. He inspected the door— a simple wooden door, with a circular golden knob— and found the lock on the knob secured. William obviously didn't want Pete to get out. Once again, Pete couldn't figure out why.

He dropped to his stomach on the ground, eyeing under the door for some sign of someone on the other side. Thankfully, the crack between the floor and the door was quite significant, and Pete was able to see that there was nothing there, except for a carpet on the other side. It wasn't even nice carpet; it was the course stuff that they have in school buildings. Pete figured, mainly by the lack of windows and the strong smell of mildew, that he wasn't in a school. If he was, it was shitty school.

He inched his fingers under the door, trying to find something, anything that might be able to jimmy the lock with. Finally, his fingers brushed a small piece of cold metal— a paper clip. Why a paper clip was in front of the door was beyond him, but Pete was thankful as he unwound it and sat up on his knees, inserting the straightened edge of the paper clip into the lock.

He had never picked a lock before. He never had the need, and he found it suddenly imperative to know— he would have to teach himself. For now, though, he settled on twirling and twisting around, the way police and criminals did on television.

He must have been doing something right, as the lock clicked suddenly. He tested the doorknob and it turned easily, the door creaking open. Slowly, he moved his head out of the room and looked around.

It was a basement of a house, not a school (Thank God, Pete thought). Making sure that nobody was there, he made his way out of the room, slowly and quietly closing the door behind him.

It was brighter in the hallway than it was in the room, thanks to a window near the top of the wall. Sunlight streamed through it, and Pete could faintly hear birds outside. He looked around for a way to reach the window, and found none.

Then, he remembered the chairs inside the room. There were two: the one he was tied to, and the one Mikey was tied to. He opened the door once more and returned the chair closest to him, the one Mikey was in, and set it underneath the window. This made Pete the perfect height, and he worked the rusted window open with his fingertips, now red and flaming with pain. Whatever it took to get free, though, Pete would do it.

Once the window was open as far as it would go, Pete pushed his arms a outside and buried his fingers in soft soil, pulling himself out of the window. His muscles screamed at him as he worked his way through the small space, his hips getting stuck on the frame. A few wiggles and squirms later, his hips came free, the waist of his pajama bottoms stained with grease from the windowsill, as well as the dried blood.

When he finally got out, the sun was overhead in the blue sky, showing maybe noon. Andy and Joe no doubt wondered where he was— Pete wondered where he was— but that was the least of Pete's worries at that moment.

He ran. He ran down the street, away the domestic-looking house. The pebbles from the street cut the bottoms of his feet to ribbons, dust getting caught in the cuts, but he kept running.

He realized that he looked criminal, with his bloody clothes and hair, fleeing as fast as his legs and wounded feet would carry him. He had the fleeting thought that he should retract his fangs, and he felt the teeth retreat back into his gums, dulling out flat again. His eyes burned, as if he was looking at his phone screen in the middle of the night, as his eyes changed back to their normal dark brown, and he slowed to a stop in front of an overpass. It wasn't busy, a single car slipping by every so often, and he climbed up the cement incline to hide under the bridge, like he had seen people do in Chicago.

He looked around and found small bundles scattered around, some of them moving as their owner slept on them, and others left alone. The whole place stunk of stale coffee, cigarettes, and, oddly enough, ramen, and Pete leaned back, sighing.

He knew he needed money. He needed money to get back to the warehouse where Andy and Joe were, he needed money to call Gerard and let him know that his brother was missing, he needed new clothes. The latter was the biggest problem at that moment, as his bloody pajamas were starting to stick to his chest and legs.

"Psst," a small voice said behind him and Pete turned to see a man sitting underneath a column that shook violently every time a car passed overhead. The man slid down the cement to Pete, and Pete saw that the man was dressed in an army jacket with jeans and tennis shoes, his short, brown-almost-black hair disheveled. "Hey," the man said. He offered a hand to Pete and said: "I'm Frank."

"Hi, Frank," Pete said. "I'm Pete."

"How long you've been running?" Frank asked.

"Maybe half an hour?" Pete said.

"Abusive relationship?"

"Nah," Prte mumbled, then straightened as he realized that he did have plan. It just took time to form in his head. "Well, it wasn't a big deal, I mean... He would beat me and stuff, but he always told me he loved me, so... I didn't know."

"He?" Frank asked. Pete nodded and Frank chuckled. "Well, you're the first I've met who likes dick. Besides me, of course, but I'm only gay half of the time."

Pete made a sound of understanding and Frank straightened slightly. "You need money, don't you?" He asked.

"I do," Pete nodded, drawing his knees close to his chest. "But I need money for laundry and food and—"

"I have a way to get you one-fifty, here and now," Frank said.

"How?" Pete asked.

"Have you heard of a thing called prostitution?" Frank asked with a hint of sarcasm. "You could be the casual hooker; hook up every so often when money's running low. Clean yourself up a bit and you could be getting a lot more than one fifty."

"Do you really think so?" Pete asked.

"Absolutely," Frank nodded. "It's pretty fun, actually."

"Alright," Pete said. He was desperate, and had no other choice. "I'll try it. Casual prostitution."

"America, everybody."

"Fuck yeah."

Notes

This is Frank. He'll be coming in a lot in Part Two. And I love this song. It's called America (Fuck Yeah) and this song is so ridiculous jfc.

xoøli