The only question left in my head as I drove from the empty and robbed gas station in the middle of nowhere was; why hadn't I killed Frank yet? Why hadn't I left him or shot him or let him kill himself? Twice, fucking twice earlier that day had he given me reasons or ways for me to just let him die, to rid him from my way and my life to make it easier and lose him. Only that morning was I pressing a blade into his stomach as I pinned him to the bed and watched his face fill with dread, he had given me such a motive to kill him and the petrified and helpless expression on his face would have made it all the more fun. I could have pushed that blade right into his torso, stabbed him several times, over and over, decorating his body with deep red slits, I could have gloriously and brutally murdered him in so many ways. But instead I just made him bleed, watched sadistically as I made tiny red beads appear over his entire chest, topping the flaming red lines I cut with my painfully blunt knife. I could have thoroughly enjoyed drenching the bed sheets with his thick blood due to stabbing him continuously. I could even have watched him blow his own face off and lighten up the plain black car we had, give it a bit of colour.
That would have added a sense of thrill to my day, watching him die, though that could just make me lonely. They say loneliness drives people crazy. Did that count for me though? I probably classed as crazy already, although I was not crazy, I just felt no regret killing people...that didn't make me crazy. It may mean my brain worked differently to the average person, but I wasn't crazy, I was actually surprisingly intelligent and rather organized, I knew the difference between rights and wrong, I just chose to do wrong. After all doing wrong is fun when you know what you're doing and don't regret a thing. If you could get away with stealing a bar of chocolate every single week and you were guaranteed not to get into trouble would you? Yes, unless you were weird and didn't eat chocolate, therefore it didn't make me crazy for enjoying committing crime when I felt no guilt and knew how to do it and get away with it. Not that I 'liked' killing people, but there was a certain thrill to it, there was a joy in the thought of the real power a human has, that anybody could and can so easily end a life with their bare hands. There was always just something about that which fascinated me; somebody can so easily end a life in the pull of a trigger, just a drop of cyanide or even two fingers or a fucking fork.
When you think of murder, you think guns, knives, poison, asphyxiation, maybe even drowning, but the truth is you can kill in so many more ways. You could kill somebody with merely a sheet of paper or even your index and middle fingers, of course they're not as fun, but still it can be done, hell you can kill someone with a fucking spoon. Which of course begs the questions, which is the best way to kill someone? Which is the most agonising way to kill someone? Which is the quickest? And the slowest? What about the most painlessly? Or the most discreet?
With so many ways to kill someone and so many reasons for me to have fucking killed Frank I couldn't actually understand why I hadn't killed the motherfucker. Admittedly I knew why I hadn't let him kill himself, but at times I wondered why I hadn't killed him. Of course I didn't want him killing himself, because that would imply he had some form of power, that he could do something I couldn't or hadn't yet done and that wasn't happening. If Frank was dying I would be in charge of it, as for him dying I think the only reason I hadn't yet killed him was because he was still just about tolerable. For the moment at least his submission and the sex was just about outweighing his idiocy and stupidity and uselessness. But I wasn't sure quite how long that would last, because it seemed he wasn't very good at being smart, or not being stupid, he would have to step up his game and actually be helpful, make me enjoy sex even more or get the police of our tracks to stop me killing him.
Actually maybe a much better question would be; why the fuck was he still here? He had had the chances of death many times, he had had the opportunity to run or just never follow me, but he didn't. He didn't shoot himself, he fought against me when I hurt him, tried to kill him and he never ever ran. He knew what this was going to be from the beginning, hell he was the same age a Mikey - I thought, I didn't actually know - and I told him not to get involved, to find knew friends, but he wrapped himself around my finger. He knew there would be death, there would be running, there would be crime and he still choose to follow, not only to follow but to stay. Why in hells name was he fucking doing that? I mean it wasn't even like I was making him feel good by being submissive or anything; nope I didn't give a fuck if he orgasmed or got aids, I loved it and he was submissive as all hell.
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You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison (Frerard) INCOMPLETEFanfiction
Gerard is a psycho. Actually he's just a highly functioning and incredibly intelligent sociopath, but really he just doesn't give a shit. Now he's on the run, after breaking bonds with everyone who stood by his side he's running and he is running wi...