Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter Twenty-One

George went back to his room, sighing as he sat at the desk, handful of hair lying beside him. What he was about to do was absolutely necessary. Everyone was going to look for him, especially considering the circumstances of Paul's death. He'll be the most wanted man in England, unless he manages to fake his death. If so, everyone would think he was yet another victim of the intangible murderer. This way, the man could keep himself clean of suspicion. Suspicion that surely made it to John Lennon's head by now. Harrison was sure about that, but he couldn't allow it to ruin his plan. If he got caught, there would be no way for him to talk himself out of it, and prove them wrong. That would be the end.

And so George Harrison shall be pronounced dead, as well as Ringo Starr. For their own good.

The man was hesitant, though. Firstly, the missing of three members of The Beatles would automatically make John the suspect, as he was the only one to stay alive now. George definitely didn't want to put his friend under any more stress, he had enough time to notice his feelings eating at him, even if Lennon tried to hide it. Did George even deserve to call him a friend? Probably not...

The other thing was...

You're sending letters, Arthur spoke suddenly. Harrison couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement, still, he decided to answer.

"Y-Yes. I need to make them believe we're both dead now. So they wouldn't look for us..."

The guitarist could almost feel his companion frowning. Smart move. However, I don't like it ruining our order. One letter a month. One victim a month.

Arthur's pedantry was something that's been making George mad for years, as well as his need to refine all his plans, take care of every detail. At this moment thought the man had no powers to argue nor even express anger. "Yeah, yeah. But that's the only way, right? It's very important."

Yes. A quiet sigh. Yes. I don't understand why you keep this kid alive. He is not dangerous, I could get rid of him at any moment. He knew no subtle way of convincing someone to follow him. He just required it, always feeling superior to any other creature. I can kill him with my own hands.

Hearing that, George felt like he was about to faint. "I said my last word. You will not hurt him." Just go away, he thought, holding his head. Go away. Disappear just like you emerged.

I will never go away.

A raspy voice sounded even louder, more real than usually, piercing through The Beatle's skull, making his head hurt. George jumped in place, he could almost feel the presence of the other man right beside him.

You want to get rid of me. After everything I have done to you. No. You would love for me to disappear. Ungrateful. I stood by you for so many years, when everyone has turned their back on you. You always had me. Yet you still turn me off. Do not appreciate what I have done for you. You would be nobody if not for me. Nobody. I tried to teach you what you should do, teach you how to live according to Codex and its rules. I wanted you to inherit my legacy, but now I know you are too blind for this. You do not want any of this. So many times I told you we are above them all. Why do you insist on falling down so much.

Listen here, boy. You will never get rid of me. I will always be by your side, because I am a part of you.

Arthur's cruel speech has filled George with fear, something his companion never understood. Emotions were a mystery to him.

"But why?" the man cried with desperation. "Why the murders? You could've been collecting stamps, for fuck's sake! Why the tortures?? The killing? Why on earth?!"

This is what the Codex says, George, This is how things should be.

That's when the guitarist broke down. He knew he'd never understand the ideology of a sick mind. The only thing he could do was to try to run away from it. For as long as possible.

"I need to write the letter," he mumbled, suddenly out of breath. "Just... let me be, please."

Alright, Arthur said as if nodding his head. After that, he left. Suddenly, Harrison remembered all the days he spent crying, caused by the nightmares of his childhood. That's when his companion used to put a hand on his head, messing with his hair, just because it seemed to stop the young boy from crying. It seemed to make it better. There was something, in this uncertain cold comfort, something that really made George feel better. That's when he really used to feel the bond with his weird and mysterious friend. No matter if Arthur could understand the emotions of a child, or anyone for that matter, he really wanted what was best for him. Maybe even now, if he could materialize, he would do the same.

It's too late for the caring gestures, though. There is no going back.

Harrison prepared the paper, pen, and ink. Making everything ready for Arthur to write, with his pedantic and tiny handwriting. The man put down Ringo's hair and was just about to cut his own when he came up with another idea.

He approached Arthur's collection. Looking at all these torture devices, he knew he had plenty to choose from. Big, sharp and shining knives filled George with grief as he remembered what they were used for. He shivered. Eventually, the man reached out, taking a small pair of pliers. He took a deep breath.

And then, with one quick motion, George ripped out the smallest nail from his left hand.

"Shit!" he groaned, throwing the tool away. The physical pain, however, helped him forget of all the other problems he had to face recently. Hurting himself like that felt somehow satisfying.

Not to mention the rewarding knowledge that Arthur is going to feel that pain as well.

Still whining quietly, Harrison went to the bathroom to take care of his wounded hand. Running cold water over his bare finger resulted in another piercing wave of pain. It took the man a while to get himself together and put the bandage on. And as he finished, he raised his head to face his reflection. One look was enough to notice how much he aged during the past few weeks. Pale, wretched, thinner than ever, the last spark of life has left his eyes long ago. Suddenly George caught himself looking at a different face, elongated and grim with harsh eyes. The sight made him jump back, scared.

He descried Arthur's face in his own.

At this moment Harrison gave up; gave up, broke down. There was nothing he wanted more than to just run away. Just for a brief moment, be able to curl up into a bowl and let go of all this pain. That's when he, once again, gave his body away for his companion to use.