America The One and Only

Tag, You're It.

I have deemed it necessary to insert a warning here, as this content is sensitive/dark/controversial. I am not responsible for anything that happens as a result of reading this. I'll try not to go into too graphic detail, though.

With this in mind, continue at your own discretion.

It started fairly early into the night. The fuzzy feeling in his head buzzed and made him disoriented. It's just the alcohol. Maybe I should stop soon.

He laid his head on the bar, blocking out the sounds around him and attempting to get his thoughts back in order. Everything was going on all at once. There was too much stimulation in the tiny bar and it was just too much too much too-!

Someone nudged his shoulder, grounding him back in reality a bit. "Hey, you don't look so good. Are you alright?" The voice had an accent, making the words harder to process in his drunken stupor. Eventually, he understood the question.

"Yeah, 'm fine," he grumbled, sitting up on the stool to appear less, well, pathetic. He turned, and got a good look at the person speaking too him.

Pale hair, pale skin, pale eyes. In the lighting of the bar he looked soft and fragile, like he was made of porcelain. His smile was small and sweet, and reminded him of his brother. An overwhelming need to cry came over him, and it took everything he had to keep himself from a breakdown.

"You are not fine. Come with me, I'll take you home." He offered an arm for him to lean on, and almost autonomously he took it, walking with the man outside. The cool, damp night air shocked his senses and hurt his skin, but he didn't care. It took enough out of him to walk straight. Or at all.

"Wait, wait," he slurred, "I don't even know your name."

"Oh, my name? Call me Ivan." He'd never heard a name like that. Of course, he's foreign.

"I'm Alfred."

"Well, Alfred, it's very nice to meet you." They had reached the foreigner's car; a nice Mercedes, all black and very shiny. He took the time to admire the car from the outside, and the way the neon lights glinted off of the polished surface.

"What if I throw up in your car?" he fussed, hesitating. "I wouldn't want to ruin something as nice as this."

"It's fine, I've got two more in my garage." Alfred oggled at him. Two more? Mercedes? This man obviously had money. It made him feel small in comparison.

"Really, mister, I can call a cab or something-"

"No, please, I insist. I wouldn't want some sketchy man in a dirty car knowing where you live. He might try something." Alfred opened his mouth to argue some more, when his vision went black and he swayed, almost falling to the pavement in the process.

"O-okay," he managed, falling into the passenger seat. The last thing he saw before he blacked out for good was that smile, curled in a way that was just wrong. Crooked.

-----

He woke up still in the car, presumably a few minutes later. He looked around, eyes wide, trying to figure out what had happened and where he was.

He shifted in his seat, pushing himself up into a more comfortable position. "I see you're awake?" the person driving asked, sparing a side glance his way.

"Yeah," he mumbled. His mouth was dry, his jacket was half-zipped, and he smelled like vodka. He must have been drinking again. At this rate he was going to kill himself from poisoning before they ever found Matthew, assuming he was still alive. "Where are we?"

"Not far now. Just a few more minutes." Just then, he swore, glancing around and pulling over to the side of the mostly deserted interstate.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asked. "If it's something with the car I can fix it, I'm a mechanic."

"No, you're still drunk. I can do it. But I might need you to hold a light for me." Ivan got out of the car, and he did the same, walking around to the back to see what he could help with. Standing made him dizzy again, and he had to brace himself against the car.

Ivan walked around to where he was, a length of something in his hands. What is that?

Before he could move, the man was on him, tying his hands together with a deadly efficiency. "What are you doing?" he cried, trying to struggle. The intoxicated haze made the air feel like honey, making his movements slow and weak.

"Your name is Alfred F Jones. Your brother, Matthew Williams, went missing exactly one week ago while he was walking home from his second shift job at the liquor store. He has yet to be found. But I know where he is, and soon so will you."

Alfred's eyes widened in horror, finally realizing what was going to happen to him. "How do you know all of this?"

Ivan chuckled. "Pain can make anyone say anything." He left it at that.

He dragged him, struggling, into the field on the edge of the seemingly abandon road. Eventually, he ran out of the strength to fight, resolving to walk just behind him. He was still being dragged forward by the rope tied to his wrists like livestock. It made him sick.

Soon he saw it. A small shack, decently made, with no windows and a single door, sat out in the middle of this field. It wasn't visible from the road, so it would be perfect for hiding live people if the need arose. Which it apparently had.

"Where is my brother?" he demanded, albeit quietly. His throat was dry, and his voice was scratchy.

"Just inside," he motioned to a few steps, leading down about four feet to the door. The man waited, watching Alfred expectantly. He was supposed to go down first. Of course.

He took the steps slowly, one at a time, to avoid falling down them altogether. Ivan was patient with him. He wished he wasn't.

When he got to the bottom, he stepped to the side, letting him unlock the door, then rushed inside, stepping around him and into the tiny room

There were two people chained to the concrete floor. One was just a child, curled up in the corner shivering, bruises covering his arms and legs. On the far side of the room Matthew was slumped against the wall, bangs hiding his eyes in shadow. He, too, was covered in bruises, but his were accompanied with blood. Neither of them were wearing any clothes, and they both looked almost deathly thin, a stark contrast to how he had seen him last.

"Mattie!" he cried, the fight within him renewed with a vengance. He lunged into the room, ropes sliding out of his captor's hands. "Mattie..." Alfred brushed the hair out of his face, tilting it up so he could see. His eyes were blank and sunken in. He was dirty, too.

Tears tracked down Alfred's face. He looked so broken, so lost. His eyes cleared for a moment. "Alfie?"

He glanced at his brother, then behind him at the man looming in the doorway. He flinched and refused to look at him any further, and it broke Alfred's heart.

He turned and muttered darkly, "What have you done to him?"

"What I'm about to do to you!" Ivan's voice was cheerful and light-hearted.

Alfred backed away, still tied and dizzy and weak, trying to delay the inevitable. His efforts were futile, however.

In seconds Ivan was on him, securing his hands to the floor and ripping off his clothes. He tried to scream, tried to fight, to get away, anything, but he couldn't. He was too weak.

Ivan forced him to the floor, a hand over his mouth and the other around his neck. He could hardly breath.

They continued like this, touches becoming more intrusive and more unwelcome as they went on. Ivan forced him onto his hands and knees, pushing his face against the wall. "Are you ready to find out what I did?" It was less of a question, and more of a threat.

Something was shoved into him roughly, making him scream. The sound tore his throat and his features contorted. He couldn't move, and all he knew was pain. White, searing pain.

Then the thing started moving. And vibrating. And it hurt. He tried to scream again, but no sound came out. He began to sob, and his legs started to go numb. The movements slowed, and he almost sighed, but then was accompanied by something sharp.

It dug into his side, so hard that blood started trickling down his leg. Fear shot up his spine, and he blacked out once more.