Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

2: Shut Up And Drive

"It works," Mikey realises and opens his eyes, resisting the tears trying to overwhelm him, "thank you."

Pete couldn't help the others, right? There was no way he could've talked Frank out of it - they were all doomed from the start. He would've had to murder his best friend to prevent it from happening. He really couldn't help them.

But he can help Mikey Way. Pete pockets his unused cigarette. "I just want to keep you safe."

>

Present Day - Frank

"Drive," I command of my hostage and push him into the seat of my Cortina Mark V. The shotgun is placed underneath the seat. It's the only possession I own now besides the clothes on my back.

"I don't know how," he mumbles to which I roll my eyes. I start unbuckling my belt and unlooping it from my jeans, and he eyes me with skepticism. "What-what are you doing?"

I answer by binding his wrists with the belt and instructing him to sit in the passenger seat instead of awkwardly bending himself in a foetal position.

"I can't put my seatbelt on." He points out.

For a kidnap victim of a madman with a loaded shotgun, he's got some nerve. "Are you sassing me? Shut the hell up or I'll gag you." Ignoring the mutters of how he's going to die anyway, I reach over and fasten it for him. I lock the doors to be safe then start the car.

Immediately, he pipes up again, timidly curious. "Can I ask you something?"

I roll my eyes and sigh in response, signalling that I don't care too much. I don't really care about anything.

"Were you really going to kill my brother?" His voice goes soft and scared. He probably doesn't want to know the answer.

"I don't know," I snap, wishing he'd quit asking about it.

We pull out of the school parking lot and head for the highway. I'm not going to miss this place - there's nothing to miss; it's almost barren. I can't wait to leave the bodies and mistakes behind. I guess my hostage won't miss it much either - nothing but his family. I like to think I'm saving us both from a life of boredom and failure.

"I don't feel good." The boy - at this moment, I don't care enough to learn his true identity beyond 'Mikey's brother' - prods at the skin covering his abdomen. "I think I've been shot."

"You think?" I scoff, trying to keep a grasp of my patience which is already wearing thin. I'm attempting to keep my eyes on the road and my feet by my weapon at all times. A bullet hit me too, of course, and I absentmindedly reach one hand to press on the wound. It doesn't feel too bad - it's on my side, nothing fatal. "You're not bad, right?"

"I'll live... I mean, unless you're going to kill me."

The realistic part of me knows I'm heartless enough to off the guy and end up in jail one way or another - I can't run forever; not even the infamous mafia leaders with their European villas and expensive white wines can hide in their infinity pools until they kick the bucket.

Another part of me wonders if I could at least try - disguise myself until the cops get off my back, keep the kid alive. There are no cop cars coming after us, probably too nervous I'll kill him. I almost look at him; from the corner of my eye, I see a limited amount of fear on the hostage's pale face which is perplexing; disappointing, even.

He's done nothing to me; he is nobody to me. The boy doesn't necessarily deserve to die - besides, he's the golden ticket to fending off the police. Regardless, it's a damn hassle to keep him around - another mouth to feed, another attempt at pointless company.