Damn Psycho

Ricky started with the kid across the street.

Ricky was nineteen then, and the kid was three years below. The kid had a sweet smile and holes in the knees of his skinny jeans, he was so pop-punk and so cool, and it drove Ricky up the wall to hear his band of hormonal high schoolers thrashing around in the garage every damned day.

So he invited him over one day, said, "Hey, Caleb, right? I noticed you play bass, wanna check mine out? I'll bring you right back."

He mumbled shyly, because there was a hot, older guy talking to him, why would that happen? "It's, um, Calum. But yeah, okay."

Calum, Calum found no problem with following Ricky across the street. They were neighbors, it was okay. Ricky's mom knew Calum's mom and Calum saw Ricky at the block parties and so on and so forth. He promised the boys in the garage - one of them, the one with a fantastic sandy blond emo fringe, sat on top of the hood of a car to play his drums - that he would be right back.

Calum bit his lip upon entering a new home, despite the living room being an average living room and the vase on the table being shattered. He asked, "What happened there?" and Ricky picked up an accent that he didn't really care to decipher.

"Nothing that matters, Mom got mad at Dad and someone broke a vase, no problem."

"Oh."

Ricky shrugged, led pop-punk Calum upstairs and to his room. He let the kid go in first, let him look around and let him see there was no bass.

"It's only a guitar," he said, pointing at, what else, a guitar.

"Oh, shit. My friend must've took my bass when he came over. Sorry. I was looking forward to showing off to someone who knew a little something about bass playing."

Calum blushed a bit, lapping up whatever the fuck Ricky was saying. He laughed a little, mumbled, "Thanks," and then added, "Maybe when your friend brings it back, then?" like this was something he wanted to happen.

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Ricky let go of his stupid little plan for the moment - Calum had three potential witnesses waiting on him across the street. Ricky could see them from the window. The lanky blond was sitting, strumming once or twice on his guitar while looking up at the sky. Cute kid. Stupid, though. He should've held his friend back.

"C'mon, let's get you back."

Calum went, "Oh, yeah, the lads," and Ricky decided he cared a little and asked where Calum was from. He answered with Australia and Ricky let the personal questions go there because he was not trying to get personal, just alone, and with three kids across the street, that was not going to happen right then.

So Ricky walked him back over to the little band in training, let him take his place on the left of the blond boy with the guitar, and watched for a second before giving Calum a smile and leaving.

He heard the boy squeak to his friends the moment he turned his back. Adorable.

No, Ricky was going to wait until the night.

And that is what he did.

Midnight struck and Ricky was cautiously sneaking into Calum's home, unlocking the door with ease considering all the houses on the block - and by extension, the doors - we're made the same. He slipped his way inside, tiptoed up the stairs, eased his way past the master bedroom and right into Calum's, which was wide open and easily accessible.

Calum was snoring, wrapped up in a deep sleep with half of his face buried in the pillow. Ricky nearly cooed about how adorable it all was before deciding that the time was now and he didn't give a shit how adorable this kid was right then. He hooked his arms underneath the younger boy, finding him long and awkward, but surprisingly light.

Holding Calum against him, the kid woke up the slightest bit when Ricky started the stairs. He murmured, "Wha'?" and could barely keep those pretty brown eyes of his open.

Ricky didn't say a word and Calum, figuring he was in a dream, fell back out. He remained quiet and snoring all the way back to Ricky's home, Ricky both opening and closing Calum's home's door with his sleeve instead of his hand. No traces.

It was a breeze, getting Calum down to the basement. He expected it to be, well, at least a bit of a challenge. But no, Calum was fast asleep, even nuzzling his face in Ricky's chest a bit, thinking he was still in his bed.

That thought came to a crashing halt when Ricky dropped him on the cold basement floor.

Calum awoke with a start, looking around in a panic when he realized he was not at home. He started to get to his feet and Ricky knocked him down, kept him down with a sharp, swift kick to the stomach.

"Listen, sweetie," Ricky began, sympathy flooding his voice. Calum tried to scramble away, but Ricky had a hand around his throat then and he was stationary. "I know you're scared, but this'll just be a minute. See, I need something new to do, I'm pretty bored with all the yelling and screaming my parents do, the homework, the guitar. And I heard this was pretty fun."

Calum whimpered, "Wh-What is it?"

Then his eyes found the blade near Ricky's foot just as Ricky reached for it and he cried out, attempted to run, but his neck was released and his mouth was covered. With the intense grip and pressure on his face and his screams muffled, he could only lie there and screech into Ricky's palm, which did not help at all.

The knife - Ricky took it from the kitchen, hardly remembered what kind it was - was held over Calum's heart, hovering dangerously close. Calum was ready to burst into tears, but he was pretty proud that so far, all he had done was tremble and scream.

"Killing," Ricky said simply, stabbing the blade deep into Calum's stomach instead of his chest. He howled against Ricky's hand, his back arching as he reacted to the pain and tried once more to break away. When it didn't work, of course it didn't, he pressed his hands to the wound on his belly, tried to stop the blood from flowing so much, and stared up at the elder in horror. There was no emotion in Ricky's ice blue eyes, absolutely none. It was nearly horrific, made him sick.

Ricky struck again, this time in Calum's thigh, and god-fucking-dammit did it hurt. He screwed his eyes shut, the tears finally making their debut as they rolled down his cheeks. It hurt so much, and Calum could hardly understand what he had done to deserve this.

"What did I do?" he asked, voice shaking. However, Ricky's hand on his mouth messed up whatever he had to say, and the older boy had to remove it to hear.

"What'd you say?"

"I said what did I do?"

The tears started up again, fat and hot as they streamed down his caramel cheeks. Poor thing; Ricky felt a bit bad, taking this innocent kid and putting him through such pain. All he wanted to do was play music with "the lads," he called them, and Ricky was completely taking away that chance. Pop-punk Calum was to be no more, though, with this much damage already inflicted.

"Nothing, Calum. This is nothing personal. It's just something I've got to do."

"Wh-y!"

His question was cut off by a slice to the face. The blade cut through the skin of Calum's cheek like butter, and it stung, especially as tears continued to make their way into the new wound.

Ricky shook his head when Calum whispered, "Just kill me, please. Please just kill me," his body quivering ridiculously.

"I'm actually having a bit of fun," Ricky practically sang, his face so close to Calum's that the stray strands of jet black hair poked at the younger boy's burning face. "I don't wanna let you go yet."

"Why me?"

"Because, hon. Nothing personal. You're a sad case of 'easy access,' if you will."

Calum continued to cry, that time without a sound. He kept the sobs in his throat as Ricky poked around at Calum's chest and biceps with the blade. Small puncture wounds pop up across Calum's skin, the knife pausing over his racing heart again and again but never plunging into it. Every time it was held above that vital little piece of blood-pumping joy, Calum would hold his breath and wince, only to relax just barely when it poked at his arm instead.

It was, quite honestly, the worst thing Calum had ever experienced.

To Ricky, it was intriguing. He found it interesting, how Calum's face morphed every time he thought he was for sure about to be killed. The fear intensified, the terror in those wide eyes. They were brown, like dirt, Ricky noted.

Then it got boring and he dropped the knife through Calum's rapidly-beating heart and the kid screeched, the loudest noise he had made since being stolen from his bed.

Ricky was inexperienced, Ricky was unsure of what to do, and Ricky nudged Calum's still body into a corner, snatching his father's old trench coat from the wall. He draped it over poor pop-punk Calum, used the sink and rags in the laundry room to clean up the blood and the blade.

He kept the blade with him as he went up to bed, not many emotions or even thoughts running through him. Perhaps he would think a bit more about what he had done after the night came and went, perhaps he would not. At the moment, he was not very concerned, and collapsed into his bed with ease. The blade sat under his pillow.

Ricky's parents came home at different times. His mom, drunk, came home at two. His father, high, came home at three. Neither of them had any idea that that night, their son became a murderer.

He wondered if they would give a fuck if they did.