Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

5: You Call Shotgun, I Call It Fate

There's a loaded shotgun in the car with my hostage.

Forgetting about paying, I bolt for the door with the stolen items in my arms and unlock the car before launching myself in the driver's seat to grab the weapon... untouched.

"You didn't...?" I pant, trying to get air and gesturing to it at my feet with wild confusion. I close and lock the door again.

Gerard leans away from me with wide eyes that give me a 'what the hell' look, looking like he wants to snap back his answer, but his voice is small and unsure when he speaks. "You said you'd hurt me."

I exhale in... relief, confusion, frustration, I haven't the slightest inkling. I was genuinely a little scared there for a second; I don't know why. I toss a shirt in his direction, trying and failing to keep my eyes off his bare torso. "Seems that you can be obedient when you're trained, then."

The fear in his expression fades into irritability. He crosses his arms and retorts, "I'm not a dog, Frank."

"Don't badmouth me, Gee; I have a short temper."

As we have all learned, of course. He mutters something under his breath - all I catch is the name 'Sherlock' - and I choose to ignore it and focus more on getting the hell out of this place before someone realises I've shoplifted. Or that a psycho killer and his hostage are making a getaway in a car thats numberplate is clearly of high interest.

About twenty miles down the road, Gerard starts humming to himself. I guess it's been a weird twenty-four hours and he's gone completely insane. Talking to yourself is a sign of intelligence - I do it all the time - but there's no need for a musical. I don't shut him up, maybe because his voice is somewhat soothing, and after a while, his soft murmuring of an almost audibly illegible tune turns into singing.

"I never said I'd lie and wait forever; if I died, we'd be together. I can't always just forget her but she could try..." He trails off, squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if trying to remember more lyrics. His nose scrunches up in concentration as he comes up blank. I give him a sideways glance, kind of hoping for more when it comes back to him.

It doesn't. "What is that?" I ask. My voice is scratchy and quiet. I clear my throat.

He sits up straight as if suddenly remembering he's not alone in the moving vehicle, looking a bit startled. It takes him a while to figure out his answer. "I made it up."

"You like music?"

"Yeah. And art. Well, music is a form of art, right?"

Yes, of course music is an art. Music is the best art. As if he needs my confirmation for it. "You have a nice voice, Gee." I don't think he hears that bit. I raise my voice, feigning interest on what could have been his future plans. "Is art what you were going to do after you graduated?"

"It was," he mumbles, probably annoyed that I took that chance from him and crushed it. Whatever. I didn't even have a chance in anything to begin with. There wasn't anything to even take away from me, so he should be grateful.

"Are you sorry that you took me?" He blurts out from the blue.

My brain switches off a little, traces of what could be described as contentment pulled out from under me. The empty road is a bare canvas in front of us, with only the occasional piece of litter as a reminder we're not the only ones left in the world. He ruined it. I don't know why it makes me so angry but whatever chance at a decent conversation we had, he wiped it as barren as the horizon.

"I'm trying my utmost not to regret anything," I tell him monotonously, carefully avoiding his question, "because dwelling over what I've done isn't going to do any good to my sanity. And I think I've done an okay job so far. If you haven't noticed by now, I don't do things like guilt and remorse - they're a waste of time. What good is it going to do? I killed those spoilt brats because they deserved to burn in hell and nothing anyone can do or feel will change that now. I'm not going to change."