Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

2: Shut Up And Drive

'Unless you're going to kill me.' I wasn't expecting such a presumption. I chew on my lip ring and say slowly, "We'll see."

I wonder what kind of person my hostage is. All the people on my list, I knew them inside and out. I knew their names, their backgrounds, from their snickers to their souls. Some of them had tormented me for years. I became obsessed with knowing everything about them so I could take it all away when I shot them dead. I know nothing of the raven-haired boy sitting next to me.

"You don't seem upset that I've taken you," I comment snidely.

He shifts, inwardly searching for a suitable reply. "I... I would rather be gone than my brother be dead. I would do it all again to save him."

To me, some selfish nobody with hardly human emotions, that sounds absurd. "Why?"

"Because I value his life more than my freedom. There's this thing called caring about people other than yourself." He sounds bitter. "Though I guess you wouldn't know about that, being that you just shot up our school."

I think he's naive for valuing someone else over himself - I've been on my own for a while and I don't look out for anyone, not even Pete. Pete's just another drive-through on my long list of short-term, personified afflictions. I wonder if my hostage had anyone to look out for him except Mikey - parents, maybe. Maybe he had friends. Can't relate. I really had no-one.

I blocked out memories of my parents so I don't remember them well aside from the occasional flashes. I don't think about my dad's five-o'clock shadow and the smell of burning when he took my fifth birthday cake out the oven. I don't think about my mother's smile that raises crinkles round her eyes or the freshly-done laundry she holds, the way she held my hands when I had been crying. I don't think about loving them, or anyone else, ever.

My bed was always a sad and lonely place, the way half of it stayed cold and made-up to look inviting but equally depressing. I often wonder what it would be like to share it, to have it half messy and the sheets crumpled, the indent of another head on the pillow.

"I have ammunition left," I retort, clearing my mind, "that I planned on using on myself. So be careful or I'll use it on you." All this threatening, it's wearing me out.

"Can I ask you something else?" He tries again, almost ignoring me.

I tap my gloved fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. "What?"

"Why Mikey?"

God, I don't want to get started on Mikey freaking Way. Mikey who never smiles and looks at everyone with his hollow button eyes like he's admiring little ants with a microscope, Mikey who walks like a phantom, talks like a tiger to its prey and swims through the crowds of tormentors like he's really one of them and not just another misfit trying to blend in.

I want to rant, to create this horrific impression of this kid, then maybe my hostage will shut up at the thought of his brother being far from perfect - but I'm not even sure if I regret the fact I didn't kill Mikey. Was letting him live the right thing to do? In any sane person's mind, of course, but I don't pretend to be normal anymore.

In any case, I don't answer the question but rather counteract it with one of my own. "What's your name?"

"You're probably gonna kill me anyway," he mutters, "and that's not fair, you have to answer mine first."

"Are you serious? I'm the one with the gun and you're the one who's tied up and getting on my goddamn nerves."

"Please can you at least tell me where we're going?" He chances.