MEnAce (peterick)

11 - Patrick

"I don't get you, Dal. I really don't." My eyes cast downward, and I realize I'm resting a hand on his knee.

Dallon blushes. "I should probably get back to Brendon now."

"But we're only halfway through break." Does that sound desperate? Believe me, this isn't an excuse to get away from Pete... God, I could strangle this timid boy in front of me if it meant I could run to my lover and fuck him until he can't stand on two feet.

"Well, you know what Brendon's like." He winks.

"Alright. Just be safe. Don't let him... force you into anything."

"Promise."

"Same time tomorrow?"

"See ya, Trick."

Before Dallon scampers off to find Brendon, he hugs me. Much too tight. I am forced to take a few moments to catch my breath.

Then I look up and I see him.

He should be paying attention to whoever's talking to him. But he's looking at me, all confused and solemn.

What on Earth has Brendon got to say to him? Nothing good, I assume.

I always presumed that Brendon has ADHD. Honestly, I don't believe it. I know what ADHD is, but that kid is not it; he's not easily irritated by tiny little things; he doesn't bound about like some dope induced kangaroo whenever he gets excited.

Excitement? Where?

He's a subdued kid, sure, what with being extremely overprotective of Dallon. And on another hand, he never hesitates to spill his verbal diarrhoea all over every person he ever crosses paths with, even if it is his cocky, threatening remarks.

I believe he is mentally disturbed, but he's not being treated for ADHD, no. He has an obsession playing 50 Shades with his 'boyfriend.' He's a liar and a psychopath.

Psychopath.

Yeah... No. I know what a psycho is. And he certainly isn't one of them.

I'm going to murder someone today.

I've been here almost three months now. So far, I've landed seven kids in hospital. But the death toll has got to be well over thirty by now. I've lost count. I've also got one last chance. One more slip up (honestly, as if they were all accidents?!) and I earn myself a one way ticket to the psych ward.

I still ask myself that question: Why the fuck am I not already in there?

They're scared. All the time. Nobody has enough guts to do anything about the menace.

Time to intervene.

"Are we done here?"

Brendon says nothing. He leaves me with Pete, alone. All high maintenance. Dickhead.

"You saw me talking to Dallon."

"You didn't tell me you were seeing him."

"Not like that."

"I was so worried about you, Patrick. You kept disappearing with no explanation-"

"You weren't worried about me. You were worried about the people you assumed I was blatantly murdering."

Pete snaps. "I care about you! Scared for you! I kept thinking they were going to lock you up, and I'm the only one who can convince them not to do that! I can't let them to take you away from me."

"If it makes you feel any better-"

"I don't care that you kill people! This isn't about you killing people! You've been seeing Dallon behind my back."

Control. I want to lose it. I would have done, if Brendon had the nerve to stay put. It's quite obvious the bastard has influenced everything Pete is telling me. God, I hate him. I'll kill him. Eventually.

Pete has full right to be angry at me.

Though he knows full well not to unleash this hatred and jealousy. He knows the danger.

"I care about Dallon, and I don't like how Brendon-"

"God, I hate Brendon just as much as the next person. But to me it seems like you and Dallon are becoming a whole lot more than friends. You're deliberately avoiding me for no reason, and I'm supposed to believe that that's what you two are? Just friends?"

"Stop talking," I demand.

My fists curl.

My cheeks heat up.

My retinas sting.

All purple.

All mania.

"What?"

I don't make eye contact. Avoiding eye contact is key. Like a vampire and his power to glamour me at his own will. It takes a glance. And it will break me. "You heard me."

Not another word. He is wide eyed, and breathing heavily. Confused. But also terrified. My fuel.

"You care about me?" I challenge him, stepping forward.

He takes a step back, hesitates. "You know I do."

Glance.

"Fucking liar!" I screech. My hands are my best friends. They'd do anything for me. And my dirty, bloody fingernails, they would, too. They would latch on to Pete's neck and squeeze and draw blood and kill as if their petty non-existent lives depended on it.

"I don't need your protection! I'm a psychopath and I will kill you and I will not feel and I will not miss you! You don't understand!"

"Fuck off of me!"

Good. I want him to defend himself. I want him to be scared of me. It surges my need to rip him apart.

"The doctors," I rasp. "They haven't come to see what all this fuss is about."

"Stay away."

"Of course you don't care!"

One more backward step and he's met a brick wall. Nowhere to run. "You... you're insane!"

I grin. My lips part like a wound being split open from the inside out. "I know! Isn't it great?"

He whimpers.

How I wish I didn't have to maul a face of such sleek beauty. The grit and blood under my fingernails, old and dried. This is fresh blood, and it bleeds mighty. And the absence of feeling is a promise. No room for feeling. Only room for the rush and the control and sound of the screams as they wrack my eardrums to insanity and the-

"NO!"

"Let me finish, I wasn't done!"

"Let me go!"

"Goddammit, let me kill him!"

You should know what's good for you, Stump.

~~~

Words: 1000