Return To Sender

The driver and Frank are engaged in conversation the entire drive, talking about all sorts of brutal things. He works in an army surplus store in the downtown area and most of his tales seem to revolve around him testing out various implements from the store in horrific "experiments." Frank is grinning and agreeing, laughing his head off while Mikey keeps his mouth clamped shut, feeling dangerously close to puking. The man's name is Dave and he has a large blonde moustache that is drenched in spit, from the amount that flies from his mouth when he gets excited.

"Is there anywhere specific you two are looking to go?" he asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. For a brief moment, Mikey swears that he winks at him and then it's gone. He's exhausted and quite possibly hallucinating.

"Do you know any cheap hotels?" Frank asks. Dave knows a local joint not far from his work and he drops them off there, promising Frank that he can have a fifty percent discount off anything in the store. It's eight o'clock in the morning and sign in time isn't for another half an hour so they sit in the boring lobby in uncomfortable armchairs. Mikey has torn off his bandages and tossed them into the garbage, preferring to look at his slashed knuckles than the blood splashed all over them. Frank keeps giving him a little smirk and rubbing his thigh, pretending not to notice the disapproving looks the few people walking by give them.

Finally, they get a room on the top level and head up, ignoring the television. The room is better than the hotel they'd been in before, but not by much. It smells like hand sanitizer and laundry detergent and just plain cleanliness. Frank lies on the bed, smiling widely like he just received a present.

"Mikey," he murmurs, beckoning Mikey over with one finger. "Do you remember when I said we were going to rewrite history?" Mikey nods and Frank pulls him onto his chest, stroking his hair.

"You're gonna have your chance today."

They stay in the same position for over two hours, the only sounds being their own breathing. It's after eleven when Frank finally wriggles his way out from underneath Mikey and stands up, throwing the curtains wide so that the sun streams in.

"I have an errand to run," he announces, staring out at the view, which consists of a billboard promoting some kind of perfume. "Will you be fine here?" Mikey nods and with a kiss, Frank has disappeared again. There's not even an indent in the bed to suggest he was there in the first place. He's afraid to watch television and so Mikey sleeps instead, falling into a series of dreams that are full of blood and tears. He sees his brother lying motionless on the floor, eyes glazed over and puke running from the corner of his mouth and he sits up, feeling like he's about to be sick himself.

There's whistling coming from the bathroom and Frank comes out, hair damp and a towel wrapped around his waist. He's holding a knife in his hand with a six inch blade, gleaming in the shitty light.

"Where'd that come from?" Mikey asks, sitting up and looking directly at Frank's belly button. Frank runs the blade over his palm and a thin red line appears, even though there was barely any pressure behind it.

"The place Dave works at," he says, handing the knife to Mikey. It's a light blade but not flimsy and he can't help but copy Frank's motion, running it across his hand. It stings briefly but it glides through the skin smoothly.

"It's beautiful," he says, handing it back to Frank. "But why do we have it?"

"You'll see." Frank is grinning again but this time, Mikey's stomach drops. There's something in his eyes, something... loose. He doesn't know how to describe it but he gets the brief thought that something is very, very wrong with his boyfriend.

"Have you ever stabbed anyone?" he asks, reaching into a brown paper bag and pulling out the leather holster for the knife.

"No," Mikey says, scooting backwards on the bed. Even though the knife is safely tucked away, he still doesn't trust Frank. He just can't get over that look in his eyes, how disconnected from reality he'd looked for one moment. "I mean, I've cut myself accidentally but..."

"Do you know what it really feels like to kill someone?" Mikey just shakes his head and Frank perches on the bed, that grin still present on his lips.

"Would you like to find out?"

***

Frank departs again after his last remark, giving Mikey a wink and leaving him with the knife, tossing it absently at the end of the bed. Mikey leaves it there, afraid to even breathe hard in case it scrapes against his toes. Sure, it's a beautiful thing but it's evil at the same time, much like he's starting to view Frank. He knows he's horrible for thinking so but he's starting to think that maybe this relationship isn't as good as it seems. He knows that Frank is just trying to strip him down to his primal urges, to not resist when he has an idea or longing, but Mikey kind of misses home.

The more he thinks about it, the more he feels homesick. He misses his own bed, with it's wrinkled sheets and constant scent of cologne, no matter how many times they were washed. He misses being able to wake up in the middle of night and watch porn on the television downstairs while eating a bag of chips. He even misses his goddamn mother, filled with Botox, collagen and martinis.

Hours go by, the sun goes down and the streets fill with glowing neon lights, illuminating the hookers on the street corners, with their cigarettes and tight skirts. Mikey sits and watches them for awhile, his attention mostly on a girl who looks no older than sixteen, with her breasts practically popping out of her low cut shirt. He watches her disappear into a car and come back an hour later, adjusting her skirt as she steps out. And still, Frank hasn't returned.

Finally, just as she goes off on another call, the door bangs open, revealing Dave trailing behind Frank, both of them laughing uproariously. Dave's eyes are all red and when he shuts the door behind him, the smell of marijuana seems to instantly fill the room.

"Hey Mikey," he says, giggling and sitting on the floor. The knife is still sitting on the bed but as Frank walks by, he slides it up the sleeve of his jacket. If he hadn't of been looking directly at him, Mikey would have thought that it had just disappeared into thin air.

"What is he doing here?" he hisses as Frank hugs him, breath warm and smelling like alcohol.

"Practice," Frank murmurs, giving Mikey's earlobe a quick bite before pulling away, smiling like a fool. He slides the knife into Mikey's hand, who quickly hides it on the window sill. Dave has pulled himself up onto the edge of the bed and is lying with his face in the pillow. The stink of him fills the entire room, a mixture of pot and body odour and... blood.

"What were you guys doing?" he asks, breathing through his mouth to try and block out the hideous smell of the room.

"Smoking," Dave mumbles before getting up and stumbling to the bathroom, saying something about bad chicken wings. As soon as the door is shut, Frank grabs the knife from behind Mikey's back and stations himself in front of the bathroom door, not showing any sign of movement even though the sound of Dave puking is loud even through the door. It almost makes Mikey want to open the window and throw up himself.

He does open the window, only to let some fresh air in and clear his mind but then Dave is screaming, only for a brief second. Mikey slams the window shut and spins around, almost vomiting on the carpet when he sees what is going on.

Dave's head is dangling over Frank's shoulder, tendrils of spit trailing from his mouth and when Frank turns slightly, Mikey can see that all six inches of the blade have disappeared into Dave's stomach. Blood is trickling down his shirt, darkening the fabric as it goes along. Frank pulls out the knife and drags Dave across the room, throwing him on the bed face down.

"Frank, what the fuck?" Mikey whisper-yells, hoping that no one is going to come and investigate.

"Mikey, this is the epitome of the trash destroying the human race," he says, giving Dave's leg a shove so it won't fall off the bed. "This man ripped a woman's ear off tonight because she looked at him funny. It's people like him that make people like you and me look bad." He tosses the knife at Mikey, who steps backwards like it'll kill him the instant it touches his skin.

"Kill him," he says, gesturing at the groaning mess on the bed. "Finish him off."

"No." Mikey shakes his head and pokes the knife back towards Frank with his foot.

"C'mon Mikey. You don't want him to suffer, do you?" He reaches forward and yanks on Dave's short hair, making him sound like a stuck pig. Mikey is already starting to cry, his stomach lurching in all different directions. Frank uses his grip to roll Dave onto his back, revealing the wound in all it's glory. Frank stabbed right where Dave's navel was and the blood has soaked into his dirty jeans, staining the crotch.

"Do you have any idea what else he's done?" he asks, picking the knife up from the floor and wiping it on one of Dave's exposed arms. "The things he's done to animals? Do you want to hear what he wanted to do to you?" Mikey is shaking his head, sinking to the floor but Frank is continuing, making shallow slices along Dave's skin.

"He said he wanted to tie you down, to taste your blood, to see if you liked having your wrists sliced open. He wanted to fuck you in your own blood, Mikey!" At this, Frank plunges the dripping blade into the fleshy part of Dave's leg, drawing the beginning of a scream that trails off into a gurgle again.

"Please stop," Mikey whimpers, ducking his head. He knows that Frank has killed, obviously, but this is the first time he's actually witnessed it, the first time he's seen the life been ripped so harshly from a person they don't even know. Frank is plunging the knife into the same spot over and over again, working so fast that his hand is practically a blur.

Mikey can't take it anymore. He can't take hearing Dave trying to scream and not being able to draw enough breath. He can't stand seeing the look on Frank's face, that loose look from earlier but intensified.

So he stands up, takes the knife from Frank and slashes Dave's throat, choking on his sobs. He drops the knife on the bed and retreats to the bathroom, finally losing the battle with his guts. When he stands up to wipe off his face, Frank is standing behind him, grinning like the complete maniac Mikey now knows him to be.

Instead of tears running down his face, there's blood.