Mousetrap

Part 10:

I'll be real, this is the part where it starts getting wack, but also becomes far truer to the source material than it has been yet, so it's not my fault. Any part that I have taken liberties is to try and make it make more sense, but even that is slipping away from me.

"What have you done?"

Brian's voice was boiling with rage so firm it came as a growl through a locked jaw.

Graham didn't respond. The knife was still in his hand, still dripping with blood. His hand was dripping with blood. The blood of the innocent man lying dead on his kitchen floor, mere feet away from where Graham's father had died.

He dropped the knife and walked past Brian into the living room, depositing himself on the couch. Brian was too stunned to stop him.

He picked up the remote with his slick hand and turned on the TV with a dead look in his eyes. He couldn't honestly say what his intentions were anymore. He didn't like the feeling of the blood on his hands—on the wrist of his jacket, even—but hollowly thought that even if he washed it off, he would never be rid of it.

And he did like that look of terror in Brian's eyes. He wanted to cherish that a moment longer. Sure, he wanted Brian dead. But right now, wasn't his fear enough?

Jamil. He had killed Jamil. Why? That had been an accident, hadn't it?

Why had Jamil been listening in on him? Graham didn't like the idea of being watched. But Brian was the one he wanted dead.

What would Saidi say?

How could she possibly react? How could anyone possibly react?

How would she find out?

His mind started taking in reality again. Brian was shouting. Not at him, he still didn't have the guts to turn to him, but he was shouting about him. Still in the kitchen, still standing over his friend's body. His wife standing next to him.

His wife.

Graham started. His mother was standing in the doorway, staring at him. Terrified. He had caused that terror in his mother's eyes. He looked at her as though remembering her for the first time in a long time. Remembering the woman she used to be—presumably the woman she still was—before he had discovered the treachery afoot.

He had blamed Brian. He still blamed Brian. He still felt he was right to blame Brian.

Audrey was still Audrey, no matter what. She was still his mother. She had still wrapped her arms around him the last time he had cried.

He found himself crying again, this time because of himself, this time at his mother.

She didn't hesitate. She came in a rush and wrapped him into a hug, ignoring the bloodied hand against her cardigan. She was a mother. She was meant to be a mother. She would always be a mother.

Time didn't so much pass, it simply happened. By the time Graham noticed Brian was in the room, half an hour had passed. He pulled away from his mother and glared at Brian.

"There's a car waiting outside, go get your stuff together," Brian said stiffly.

"What?" Graham asked, trying to stay firm in his depth of confusion.

"You're gonna go to Cousin Artie's for a while, lay low. I'll take care of the body. Now, go get your stuff together."

Graham felt frozen, like a frog who had just been hit with a rock. Largely uninjured, but stunned. Brian wasn't supposed to help him. Brian was supposed to die. Who was cousin Artie? He felt he had heard the name several times in the past, but had never come close to meeting the man or learning anything about him.

He looked at his mother, who had gone back to being just Audrey as she nodded softly to her husband.

"I don't..." Graham trailed off. He couldn't say no. This was better than any alternative.

"Go on, Graham," Audrey urged, shoving him lightly.

He stood, numb, and walked to his room not fully aware of what he was doing. Brian watched as he shoved a few things in his backpack, likely making sure he didn't climb out the window again. He didn't think about what he was grabbing. It didn't seem to matter. Maybe those socks were dirty. Maybe that shirt had been too small for years. He zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, and unthinking allowed Brian to lead him out.

He didn't say goodbye. He didn't quite have the will to. The car was old, and blue, and two men sat in the front. Brian spoke with one of them briefly, then opened the back door for Graham.

"I don't want you to hate me, Graham," he said softly.

Graham didn't answer. He slid into the seat and faced forward. The door closed, and Brian went back inside the house.

"You're Graham?" The man in the passenger seat asked. He didn't have a very nice voice. Even in the simple question, he sounded menacing. The face didn't quite match the voice. It was round, and looked accustomed to smiling, and was topped with shiny blond hair.

Graham nodded stiffly.

"I'm Goldy, this is Roro." He pointed to the driver, who waved briefly before putting the car into gear. "Brian said you should know everything's gonna be alright." He shrugged like he didn't believe it. "I guess you just gotta try not to kill anyone else."

Graham put his headphones on.