Return To Sender

Mikey feels like he's drowning. He's sitting in the bathtub underneath the shower head, still wearing his clothes, soaked from head to toe. The drain is clogged and so the water is slowly building up around him, reaching his waist. It's faintly red and hot almost to the point of scalding. He's sobbing hysterically but it's not loud enough to block out Frank in the main room, who is singing.

"I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!" As he sings, there are odd thumping noises that Mikey can't place. His natural curiosity wants him to get out of the shower, stop indulging in a pity party and see what the fuck is going on but in the shower, he's safe. He can stay in denial, pretend that the night didn't happen, no siree, he's gonna wake up in his own bed and everything will be back to normal-

"There they all are standing in a row!" Another loud thump and Mikey winces away from the noise, water dripping down his nose and into his mouth. His hair is hanging into his eyes and he lets it stay there.

"Big ones, small ones, some the size of your head!" As he says this, there's an even louder thump and Frank bursts into hysterical laughter, sounding absolutely maniacal. Which he is, Mikey reminds himself. He can no longer hold off on wondering what bizarre ritual is progressing. He shuts off the tap and pulls himself out of the bathtub, letting his waterlogged body flop heavily onto the floor. Crawling forward, he pokes his head out into the main room and instantly tries to scream.

There's a severed head staring back at him. It's eyes are huge, bulging and looking right into his. The mouth is pulled open in a grotesque grin, showing blood stained teeth. It's Dave's head, severed from his body which is... or was lying on the bed. Looking at the bed, Mikey tastes vomit swiftly rushing up his throat. He barely manages to contain it and the tears are coming down his face again.

"Oh my God Frank," he whispers, voice choked. "What the fuck did you do?" Two feet from Dave's head is one of his arms, severed at the elbow. There's a gold ring on one of the fingers, which are frozen in a clutching position. The rest of his body parts, with the exception of his torso, are scattered on the floor, which explains the thumps he heard. Frank is perched on the edge of the bed, a few droplets of blood scattered across his face like obscene freckles. He is grinning.

"I got bored," he says, shrugging as if it's the silliest question in the world. "And that knife is sharp." He starts giggling again, the sound high pitched and absolutely terrifying. He stands up and Mikey gets the urge to start skittering backwards. Maybe if he got back in the bathtub, he'd be safe from this monster advancing towards him.

And then Frank is pulling him up and he's normal again, hideous grin faded away to a soft smile. He pulls Mikey into a hug, not minding that his clothes are soaked and that he still faintly smells like vomit.

"You know I love you," he says and Mikey is still standing still, like a plank in Frank's arms. "I really do. Don't forget it." He holds Mikey at arms length, surveying him like a father would survey their daughter's date.

"We killed a murderer," he says slowly, annunciating each syllable. "None of this has been murder itself. We're saving the world."

"What about that man at the hotel?" Mikey asks, licking his lips, feeling Frank's grip on his shoulders tighten slightly. "What did he ever do to warrant being murdered?"

"Mikey, I didn't murder him," Frank says, smile morphing into a grin again. "Silly boy. Don't you remember? I saved him. He was cheating on his wife and he needed to go. Besides, you're the one who told me to do it." At this, Mikey feels his skin instantly burst into goosebumps and his heart grows cold in his chest.

"What? I did not," he protests but now he can remember it all. He remembers telling Frank to do it, that he'd heard the hotel owner on the phone with his little whore. He shuts his eyes and the scene replays itself in his head. He'd even given Frank the idea to use a letter opener, that it would be classy. And he remembers following Frank into the small office, watching as he shoved it into his fleshy neck. One cannot scream with their throat cut but they sure can claw desperately in their last few moments of life, gurgling Listerine made of blood. Mikey remembers it all now and he suddenly feels sick again. This time, his will power isn't enough and he spins around, aiming roughly for the sink and missing.

"Oh Mikey, you made a mess," Frank coos, reaching for the only clean facecloth and getting it wet before handing it to Mikey. He's furious and disgusted with himself. He couldn't have done that, he just couldn't have. He was a good person, he was!

"You don't have to justify it to yourself." Mikey looks up and sees Frank through a fog, thanks to the condensation on the mirror. His eyes are the most prominent part, two dark coals in his face.

"There's nothing wrong with what you did." He smiles again and disappears back out into the main room. As he picks up Dave's limbs and begins to pack them into a plain black duffel bag, Mikey takes off his wet clothes and throws them into the bathtub. He only has two more changes of clothing but he never wants to wear that set again, knowing that they've seen two murders now. He picks up one of the towels and scrubs his body vigorously before wandering out into the living room, still naked, to get his clothes. Frank has already laid out an outfit on the bedside table, which is free of blood.

"So what do we do now?" he asks, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand before pulling on his boxers.

"Well, we can't just leave Dave here, can we?" Mikey doesn't think it would really matter. The room is covered in enough physical evidence that it wouldn't matter if his limbs were still scattered around the place. However, Frank has already neatly tucked him away in the duffel bag. One finger is poking out of a hole in the side and he roughly shoves it back in.

"I'm thinking of dumping him down by the ocean, where we were this morning." He wiggles his eyebrows absurdly high, looking like some animated cartoon character. "Sound good to you?"

"Whatever you want," Mikey mutters. Despite it being empty, his stomach still hurts. He scratches his face idly, leaving ugly red marks on his cheeks. Frank is whistling, looking underneath the bed to see if he's forgotten anything. Mikey zips up his sweater and pulls on his shoes, all the while listening to Frank whistle some swift tune.

"You have everything?" he asks, bouncing from foot to foot like an excited child. "Ready to go? We gotta be quick."

"Whatever," Mikey mutters again, throwing his hood up and stepping out the door. The air in the hallway is staler but it smells much better. There's no undertone of blood or vomit. Frank locks the door behind him, tucking the key into his pocket as he tries to take Mikey's hand. He flinches away and Frank simply shrugs. The duffel bag is in his other hand and he swings it as he walks, in time with his steps.

"What about checking out?" he asks and Frank shrugs again.

"Why should we? It's not like we're using our real names anyways." Mikey can't help but look back at the room they're simply abandoning. Frank must have stepped in blood, for as he walks, he leaves faint red footprints on the flat beige carpet.

The night desk man is asleep, head resting on his arm, a faded skin magazine at his elbow. Phlegm rattles in his throat as he snores, echoing throughout the empty lobby. Frank strolls by nonchalantly, having started up whistling again. The sound is drilling into Mikey's brain, getting more and more annoying by the minute. As they step out into the stuffy, warm night air, Mikey remembers what happened to their last car. It's sitting at the bottom of the ocean, becoming a home for the fish.

"Frank, we're not going to walk there, are we?" Frank only chuckles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the keys for Dave's car, which is parked at the far end of the parking lot. As they walk towards it, a thought appears in Mikey's head with no warning.

Run. He stops in his tracks, gazing stupidly at the air around him, looking for someone who might have said it. Run. It's his own mind, urging him to get the fuck out of there, to just take off running. He'd probably be able to make it around the corner before Frank even noticed and then he could hide out in an alleyway until he was gone. He could go to the police, he could save himself! Sure, he'd still get a few years in prison for being an accomplice but he was sure that he wouldn't get the death penalty.

His right hand, as if of it's own accord, flies up and slaps him in the face, the sound crisp in the air. His head snaps to the left, nearly sending him onto the ground in a sprawl. How dare he think such thoughts! Frank has done nothing but care for him unconditionally the last few weeks, given him everything he wanted. How dare he think of abandoning him! If anything, he should be chipper, excited even, about the worldly mission they were on.

But even as he tries to smile, to put on his best "Golly gee, this will be fun!" face, he can't help but feel that maybe he should have run while he had the chance.

***

The moon is descending when they reach the lookout spot that led down to the beach. There are indentations in the soft dirt of the edge, showing where their former vehicle went over nearly twenty four hours ago. Mikey thought that Frank would show this car the same treatment but he only took the duffel bag from the back seat and began carefully picking his way down the cliff, whistling another tune. Mikey follows after him, walking much slower as his thoughts go into overdrive, making him visibly wince.

You can't run now, you missed your opportunity. Do you really want to be stuck with him? You'll die Mikey. Someday he'll kill you.

"He won't," Mikey mutters, trying to keep the confidence in his trembling voice. "Frank loves me and you don't kill people you love."

Of course you do. It happens all the time. Save yourself first.

By this point, he has reached the sandy beach, slipping on the looser terrain. He can see Frank silhouetted, holding the bag and simply staring at the ocean. He's full out singing again, bellowing up to the sky.

"I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!" Mikey's neck twitches and he drops to the sand, crawling towards him. Frank drops the bag and throws his arms up, looking like a pastor.

"There they all are standing in a row!" At this, he points out at the ocean, cackling loudly. Mikey is close enough to touch him but he stays hidden behind him. His thoughts are layered on top of each other, contrasting. However, there's one that is louder than the others and Mikey is listening to it, twitching as his fingers creep up, stealthily reaching up to Frank's hip. His sweater is bulging there.

"Big ones, small ones, some the size of your head!" As he says this, Frank whirls around to see Mikey standing right in front of him. He's grinning maniacally, smile stretching almost to his ears, all his teeth showing. His eyes are huge and loose.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, a complete contrast to his facial expression. Frank raises one confused eyebrow but by that point, it's too late. There's a small click and six inches of cold, blood stained steel is plunging into his stomach, ripping through his insides.

Frank screams, howling up at the moon like a wolf. Mikey screams, fingers gripping the blade like they're glued to it. They both drop to their knees, Mikey refusing to let go. It's the only chance he has.

And as Frank's eyes weakly try to flutter open, Mikey's shut. He drops to the sand, only vaguely aware that he's in pain himself. All he cares about is that he's free.

And then, he sleeps.