"Jon? Jonathan! John, can we just go please? We've gone through three floors, you've done enough, can we just go?" The ginger pleaded to the figure looming over two bruised, bloodied security guards.
"The police are surrounding the building, they are going to do a perimeter sweep, we'll be outnumbered! We have to leave now!" His voice was filled with panic, green eyes wide with fear. Oh, how he loved that look! It gave him power, the ability to string him along and then dump him, a sobbing mess writhing on the floor, lost, forgotten.
"Just one more floor, Pete, I promise, then we can go."
Peter looked out the window, down towards the rally of police cars awaiting them. The red and blue lights illuminated his face, reflecting in his worried eyes.
"Ok, but you promise, right?"
"Of course, would I EVER lie to you?" he looked down at him, using the best impression of 'innocent and adorable' he could muster in the current situation, itching advance to the next floor. Just three more, three more and they would be on the roof. He was so close, Pete could survive that long at least.
"The short answer is 'yes'." He could feel the smirk plastered on Jon's face as he ran to the next floor, knowing he won that round, itching to 'play' with the unfortunate civilians who decided to work overtime in the hopes of giving meaning to their small, predictable lives.
~2 Minutes later~
"PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!" he heard one of the officers yell. Pete backed away slightly, preparing to bolt. He stole a glance up over to his friend.
Jon was the only person who ever seemed to understand, or at least tolerate him. But in saying that, that saying could go both ways. He didn't know another being who could stand the others complete disregard for social niceties, or really social interaction in general. Unless it was scared or dying Jon probably wouldn't care less. Another reason why their friendship seemed all the more impossible.
Pete, being as narcissistic as he was, believing any attention was good attention, not only had severe OCD, could be broken with the simplest of ideas, the idea that no one cared. That he was being ignored, that he would be locked up in solitary, left to die.
Jon, however, was cold, icy even. The whole idea of 'friends' seemed alien to him, let alone the domestic meaning for 'family'. The idea that two of the same gene pool had obligations to care for each other, Pete was the closest thing he had to either of the above. Maybe even a little bit more. Jon relished watching the fear of others, observeing them, pinpointing their responses to certain ideas, feelings even, and then sat back and watch as every one of their lives fears unraveled and played out before him. He could break little Pete whenever he felt like it. So why didn't he? He never knew the answer to that, someone so fragile, so easy. The smallest implication of disinterest toward him could send his world crashing down. So why had he become so attached in the first place?
Jon was pulled from his thoughts abruptly.
"I SAID, HANDS. HEAD. NOW!" the officer again shouted, clearly a rookie. He stood close, not too close as to draw attention, but close enough for Pete to deduce that he hadn't had much experience in this field, and traversed what he had deemed the 'safe' zone around his commanding officer's current position, it amused him, the Chief Commissioner and his PET. Adorable. That didn't stop Pete from taking another step back, he was weary how sentimental people got around their pets.
Jon glanced behind him, he could see Pete was ready to run. He felt something in the pit of his stomach. What was that? Guilt? Sure, he felt bad. All Pete wanted to do was leave. But it would be fine, they would get out of here unscathed and dodge going back to that pathetic attempt the government dared to call a Mental Institution. They would make it out without a scratch and they could go home and watch a season of whatever Pete felt like watching, and they would be fine.
Suddenly his train of thought was broken with a sound.
A amused chuckle escaped from him, the bullet had wizzed just over his shoulder, not only a rookie but a terrible shot. He should have chosen a career in anthropology, thats a much calmer profession, you don't need to be a crack shot to study and tame ordinary people. Then it hit him, the wall of suffering and greif, "Pete."
Jon turned around slowly, he saw the blood pour into a puddle onto the floor. Lunging towards the other he scanned Pete's body for the impact point. The bullet had lodged itself somewhere inside the tissue of his heart. The suit he had been wearing soaked up some of the blood, creating a beautiful tapestry of reds on Pete's white dress shirt.
"Pete? Pete! PETE NO! No, no, no... We were going to go home! Thats all you wanted! Get up and we can go." He cradled the now limp body's head in his chest. His world started to go blurry, a great smudge of greys and dark blues. He barley registered the sound of pounding footsteps signalling the arrival of the police departments reinforcements.
He felt a hand on his shoulder prying him away from the body that was rapidly loosing heat. The wound had stopped bleeding now the organ had ceased pumping the red liquid that once flowed through his only friend.
"DONT TOUCH HIM!" He yelled as he was yanked away from his Pete.
"I- I promised... I promised we would go home" he said in broken words as he was escorted out of the building.
Yeah, great title right? So first off, hello! I have been thinking a lot lately what the loss of a person could do to someone, so I decided to write this to try and help me understand. Advice and constructive criticism would be extraordinary! But please try remember that I'm only a novice at writing and i am trying to improve but it may take a while, so try to bear with me...or not... I don't really mind, either way.
Just as a little heads-up, there will probably be some trigger-ish chapters, so i will try and put warnings at the start of those chapters... and it may get a little confusing as there may be more than one ending. But it should be fun anyway...