Fear Me, Dear

It has been three days.

I haven't spoken to Oli. I haven't told the guys why I came home drunk as a skunk. I haven't heard from Dan. None of us have.

Continuously we have all texted and called him but to no avail. All we get in response is an automated message once we reach the voice mail. It's been an entire three days since he went to look for me, and if something has happened to him then I have no idea what I would do. Sob? Drink? Isolate myself? I could probably do a lot worse, but we'll leave it there.

I refuse to speak to Oli. At least until I get my head sorted. My thoughts are a puzzle, and a bloody difficult one at that. I need time and a lot of it, especially if what Oli told me drove me to drink until I didn't know my arse from my elbow. I can't tell the guys about it either; probably a bad idea seeing as bottling things up hasn't really been working for me recently. I really have no choice though. It's between myself and Oli. No one else has to get involved. Not yet, anyway.

Camp Josh generally hasn't been a good place to be the past few days. I fell asleep twice and woke up both times trying to escape my terrible nightmares and the haunting images they paste on the backs of my eyelids. Sleep has evaded me for nearly thirty hours, my mind screaming in fear of sleep and what will happen if I close my eyes. Dreams are like an outlet for your mind and your deepest thoughts. If you were in my shoes, you would agree with me when I say I want to cut off that outlet. I'd rather not dream than be plagued by these nightmares. Flashbacks are occurring more than they were and once again the shoelace is my best friend.

Chris and Matt are trying to stay as optimistic as possible, with the support of Hannah and her words of wisdom of course. This situation has really taken its toll on Max though. He's hardly eating or sleeping. As much as he tries to act optimistic, he is anything but. You can tell from the distress in his eyes and the bags that decorate them. It's like we've lost a part of him.

That's my fault.

We're all in the living room. Matt is sat with an arm around Max's shoulders on the sofa to my left. I take up the other end of the sofa, threading the shoelace through the gaps of my fingers. Chris is sat in his armchair with his guitar in his lap, softly strumming the strings, nonsensical tunes of no clear origin. Hannah is sat on the floor to my right, legs crossed as she doodles in her notebook. The doorway to the kitchen is empty. That's where Dan should be, holding a mug of tea as he talks to us. How long will that space be empty?

The television is on, but I'm not really paying any attention.

Where could Dan be? If he was at a friend's house he would have told us. All his friends and the majority of his family are in the area, so I can't think why he would go off somewhere else. Is he mad at us? Is he giving us all the silent treatment? No, that would be a dickish move. Dan isn't that much of a dick. So what happened to him? None of this makes any sense.

"Guys..." Matt says in a strained voice.

I look up, sensing the obvious distress of my friend. Him and Max are staring at the television, Matt with wide eyes and Max with his hands covering his mouth. Chris places his guitar down ever so slowly and focuses on the television. Hannah looks up from her notebook. What is everyone so shocked and transfixed by? My question is answered as I turn my attention to the television screen. It's on the local news channel and I feel my heart stop.

"Earlier today a body was found in an alleyway in the Weybridge area. The victim's identity is as yet unknown but the teenaged male is believed to be from the local area. The police have confirmed possible links to five previous incidents, which left four deceased victims and left another local teenaged boy in a critical condition. It is believed that the victim was out walking when they were attacked, suffering multiple knife wounds before having the word "bother" carved into their chest. Updates to follow."

The voice of the news reporter is just noise. It's as if the air has turned heavy as I struggle to catch my breath. It's like a force is pushing down on my chest as a hand wraps around my neck. My muscles feel like they are made of lead. I can't move. It's not difficult to put two and two together but I wish it was. Teenager, male, and local.

Dan.

He hasn't been home in three days and hasn't gotten in contact with any of us. I hate to assume the worst, but there's no denying that the worst is incredibly likely.

Dan could be dead.

That single thought is what sets my muscles on fire and loosens the vice-like grip on my neck. It takes me mere seconds to throw myself off of the sofa with my phone in hand, immediately searching for Dan's number in my contact list. With the phone held to my hear, I pace along one side of the room as it rings. It rings. And it rings. And it rings.

Cursing under my breath and getting increasingly frustrated and panicked, I dial again. Chris is busy texting away on his phone, telling us that he's texting all of our friends to ask about Dan. Max looks so lost as Matt quietly talks to him, to reassure him though I can tell that even he doesn't believe what he's saying. Hannah appears to have her attention fixed on the television, still on the same local news channel and repeating the story which could be about Dan.

I call Dan a total of nine times. No answer.

Chris has texted fourteen people. No one knows where Dan is.

The panic is still building and I feel like I'm about the break. I decide to call Dan a tenth time. A voice in my head tells me that he might pick up, but I know that it's just a lie. When I reach the voicemail and the automated voice greets me again, I decide to leave a message:

"Daniel Flint, you better answer your fucking phone. Every single person in this room is on the verge of a breakdown and I'm definitely not going to have any hair left at the end of the day. I don't care where you went or who you're with, I just want to know that you're safe. I'm not pissed because you've pranced off somewhere. I'm pissed that you haven't told any of us. As soon as you get this call me back straight away, and I mean straight away. I feel like I'm going to fucking throw up and we're all on edge right now. Call. Me. Back."

The second that I hang up, there's a knock on the door.

Five people in the room and not a single one goes to answer the door. Motionless bodies remain rooted to the spot as blank looks are exchanged. You can almost hear the collective thoughts that yell "Dan?" but then comes the sound of working gears as logic reconstructs our thoughts. If it is Dan at the door, why doesn't he use his house key? He almost never leaves the house without his keys, and when he's home they're always in the same place: in the bowl on the coffee table. The bowl holds some old mints, batteries, gift cards, but no keys. Personally I have no idea who could possibly be at the door, and I feel that the others are failing to solve that very mystery. Matt is the person to get up and actually open the front door, greeting who ever it may be.

An incredibly short discussion takes place before Matt comes back into the room with not just one person, but two people. Two police officers. Fuck. If it's even possible, the mood of the room spirals further downwards and the general vibe is grim. The shorter policeman is one I recognise: Vic who I saw in the alleyway and again at the hospital. The considerably taller of the two thankfully isn't "I read algebra textbooks" Steve, and instead is a woman with light brown hair that is all pulled back into a tight bun which I spot as she removes her hat. Both Vic and the woman wear solemn expressions which mean anything but good news.

"Good afternoon, gentleman." The woman greets, spotting Hannah on the floor and nodding at her. "Madame."

"Can we get either of you a drink?" Chris asks politely although a bit shakily which may be down to some nerves.

"No thank you." Vic replies with a small smile that is short lived. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of your hospitality at this time."

Shit.

"If everyone could take a seat, please." The woman says, and without a moments hesitation Matt returns to his spot beside Max. I stay standing, and this catches the attention of both the woman and Vic.

"Josh, I really think you should sit down for this." Vic tells me, enunciating every word slowly and quietly to get his point across.

Shit.

I walk over to my spot on the couch as if it is late at night and I'm trying not to wake everyone up as I tread carefully down the stairs to the kitchen. As soon as my arse meets the sofa, my heart rate increases and my anxiety makes me feel like I'm going to burst. The truly serious nature of the situation has fully sunk in and I'm so scared. The two officers remain standing.

"I'm Detective Inspector Samuels, and I have been made aware that you are already familiar with Sergeant Fuentes through two previous encounters. We're here to give you news on the case concerning your friend, Daniel Flint, of whom you declared missing a couple of days ago."

"Have you found him?" Max asks sheepishly as if he fears the answer.

"Well..." Vic starts before looking to his partner, Samuels.

Shit.

"Please no..." Chris starts before trailing off, shaking his head ever so slowly in denial of what news he thinks will come.

"You may have heard about the body found this morning, and we have been able to identify them. We have found your friend, but in the most unfortunate of circumstances. Daniel Flint is dead. I am so sorry."

Her words sound like a script for a soap, not real life. Dan isn't dead. He can't be. The faces of my friends tell me otherwise. All hold different expressions; Matt's lips are pursed, Hannah has wide eyes as both hands cover her mouth, Chris is biting his thumb, and Max is staring blankly at the wall right in front of him. Yet these varying expressions hold a few things in common: the tears and the sorrow in their eyes. Not a single person moves. The two officers just sit silently to the side, just as unmoving as the rest of us. I nearly cry as the feeling of loss and emotional pain builds up inside me. Then it swiftly changes to anger. Fury. Boiling rage. A small part of me is terrified of the pure ferocity of the anger. Another part can see past the flames. I slam my hand roughly on the arm of the sofa as I violently lift myself from my seat, causing everyone to jerk back. Even Samuels and Vic can't maintain their composure, flinching ever so slightly as a result of my actions. Before anyone can utter a word and ask what the hell I'm doing, I storm out of the room and out of the house.

The anxiety that is commonly partnered with any sort of ventures outside of my front door are smothered by the anger, choking on the fire flowing through my veins. Fists sit clenched at my sides as I march down the street towards my destination. Within seconds of the rage flowing through my system I knew where I had to go. The confused faces of the people I pass don't phase me and in this moment they don't put me on edge. Heavy steps send shock waves through my body as I go, giving no shadow and no movement room to frighten me.

Blinded by the smoke and red tint to my vision, I don't remember entering a block of flats. I don't remember getting in a lift and pressing the button labeled '8'. I don't remember reaching the door of flat 24. However, I remember why I'm here. Raising my arm, I slam my fist repeatedly against the door as if I plan to break it down. I don't hear the click of the lock, and as the door opens I almost punch the person in the face.

"Josh?" A confused Oli asks, looking at me as if he doesn't recognise me. I don't blame him, I wouldn't recognise myself in this state. His hair has been cut to his chin, messy waves framing his face. He may look drop dead gorgeous in this moment, but I am absolutely fuming.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"You killed him!"