MEnAce (peterick)

4 - Pete

"What is with this shit, Peter?" Patrick complains, flicking dishwater in disgust. "I didn't come here to learn how to do my mom's job."

I grin, shielding my eyes from flying foam. "We all have to do it."

"Says the guy who's standing there doing nothing and laughing at me."

"That's cute."

"Huh. Look what the cat dragged in."

I follow his hatred filled gaze to another kitchen station across the room from us. The Beebo kid with ADHD, Brendon, and his so-called boyfriend Dallon, just so happen to have been picked for the same job as Patrick and I. They're not doing much washing up, preoccupied, whispering and staring right at us. I can see why Patrick is uncomfortable.

I keep a watchful eye as Patrick attempts to ignore them.

Brendon points. Dallon turns his head, fearful, a blush on his cheeks. Brendon takes his shoulders and turns his body all the way around, and then gives him a little shove. Reluctantly, Dallon stumbles over to our station, pale as a sheet.

Patrick flinches at the taller boy's closeness. He's not used to looking up at people.

"Umm... hi," Dallon starts with a stutter. "You're Patrick, right? I just wanted to tell you, uh... I'm Dallon, by the way, my boyfriend forced me to come over here, but, your eyes- they're really, ah, really awesome."

Patrick visibly relaxes. "Oh. Well, thanks, I'm glad you think so."

"Great, well... I'm Dallon."

"I gathered," Patrick chuckles. That makes me smile.

"Sorry, I know, I already said that... I have a lot of trouble talking..." Dallon glances hastily over his shoulder. "To other people."

"That's ok," Patrick replies, slowly and cautiously cleaning the sharp tip of a kitchen knife. His eyes glint with a fascination as he stares at the blade, before placing on the countertop. "I do too, sometimes."

"What are you two birdies talking about over here?"

Patrick ditches his chore, and we all turn to see Brendon striding over to us, beaming curiously.

"Nothing," the two boys state simultaneously.

"Dallon, babe, why don't you go back to our room. Daddy's gonna have a little talk with the small man." I cringe at Brendon's choice in words, and Dallon scurries away, like a child desperate for a piss. Brendon holds his sickening smile. "You trying to get in my boyfriend's pants or something?"

"Uh-" Patrick starts.

I shake my head and step forward. "Dude, Patrick wasn't doing anything. Dallon walked over to us."

"I'll give him a lecture about talking to strangers later," Brendon says, not looking at me. "Though, Patrick, you're no stranger around here, are you? Everybody knows you, the freak with the menace eyes."

"Brendon, you know we saw you over there. You told your boyfriend to come over here on purpose. He even told us that himself."

"Like I said, I will deal with him for misbehaving later on."

"No wonder he's got major jitters. The only person you let him talk to is you, and you're practically forcing shit on him."

"You don't get to talk," Brendon snaps at me accusingly. "I was talking to the menace over here."

Patrick does not speak. He tends to avoid words when being threatened. His initial fear of the bully is real, but as Brendon continues to patronize him, his emotion becomes a mask. A mask to conceal the anger that is boiling, the anger that will kindle his need to fight back. Fear stimulates anger. Anger stimulates violence.

His hand inches toward the knife on the countertop. His fear becomes mine. By all means, I will stand back and watch him do what he has to do, simply because this murderous boy isn't Patrick, not exactly. But I don't look forward to being a witness of bloody murder any time today.

"Patrick." I keep my voice level, quiet.

He glances in my general direction, fingers hovering above the hilt, twitching.

"You won't kill him," I murmur, mouthing the words rather than speaking them, in fear Brendon will hear them. "You won't kill him, Patrick."

"Nah, he won't kill me," Brendon says, stepping toward Patrick threateningly. "He'll kill himself before he gets the chance."

"I wouldn't be so sure." These words, from the younger boy.

The kitchen knife fits perfectly in his hand. He holds it stable, with sureness, no hesitation. And my brain hollers warning: Get out! There is a LUNATIC holding a knife, and you need to get the fuck out! But I'm not at all nervous. In fact, Patrick is so sure of himself, so experienced holding that deadly weapon, that I look up to him with respect.

Brendon, on the other hand, is half terrified, his hands up in surrender, trying to laugh it off, trying to tell Patrick to put the knife down.

And right then, unneeded company arrives. And this unneeded company proceeds to do the most unhelpful of all things. She panics.

I duck instinctively, a short moment before Patrick swings his arm wide, his weapon flying. A perfectly decent response, I have to admit. The young woman, a staff member, perhaps a recently graduated student doing work experience; appearing in the worst possible place at the worst possible time, she's more than unlucky.

She's straight up dead, a fine, deep gash lining her throat from one side to the other. Her body almost topples over me as it falls, staining me with its welling blood.

Patrick realizes what he's done, but he shows no remorse. No time for any of that. He turns on Brendon, dropping the knife, and Brendon backs away, breathing heavily. "Patrick, dude-"

A flash of purple, lighting up the shock horror of Brendon's features, and Patrick has him on the ground, hands around his neck. Patrick is squeezing hard enough to kill, and he only needs seven seconds to do so.

Brendon writhes and chokes. Patrick only squeezes harder, in his own little world, where it's just him and his hands and Brendon slowly dying beneath him.