The Exploding Boy @whereisyourb0yt0night - Tumblr Blog

The Bathroom.

SAW AU PETEKEY FIC

A lovestruck voyeur and a hyperphilliac find themselves chained up in a bathroom. With two saws, two tapes and three kidnapped bandmates, there is only one goal. The clock is ticking. Will Mikey face the consequences of his lustful actions and kill Pete, or let his brother and friends die?

Tags- Petekey, Pete Wentz, Mikey Way, Pete Wentz x Mikey Way, Saw 2004 AU, Chainshipping, Gerard Way Supporting Character, Frank Iero Supporting Character, Ray Toro Supporting Character, Matt Pelissier Mention, Blood, Self Mutilation, Bodily Harm, Death, Smoking, Profanity, Cocaine Mention, Alcohol Use, Drug Abuse, Sex Mention, Guns, Torture, Drowning, Stalking, Vomiting

Art by the incredibly talented @luvien0 !!!

Check out his post about it here!

20.9k words

Obscured darkness. Ripples. Bubbles. Drowning.

Panic rose in Pete’s chest as he opened his eyes, and simultaneously his lungs filled with a flood of dirty water. The faint taste of rot and sewage covered his tongue. He flung his arms to the side, a sharp clatter against his elbows causing him to open his mouth and gulp down more of the tainted liquid. He had to get out. His hands searched for something to help him escape the watery coffin, something to pull him up. Blindly reaching for a ledge half a foot or so above his face, he grabbed on and lifted himself from the fluid prison.

Spluttering and coughing, he sat up. He scanned his surroundings after spewing up at least a can's worth of water and bile into the soup he was sitting in. A bathtub. He was in a dirty white bathtub in a completely black room. The faint sound of water draining and the tick of a clock muddled in his water-clogged ears. He scrambled out of the tub. Sodden and filthy, he collapsed onto the floor, catching his breath before rising to his feet. Pawing at the walls and the cold metal of what he assumed were pipes, searching for any clue to his whereabouts. A scraping noise followed his every movement, and in the gloom of the dark room, he could barely make it out. He traced his hands down the pipe to the floor. He felt a thick, industrial chain wrap around the exposed pipe that ran along the ground level. ‘Fuck’, he thought to himself. He was chained here. He cried out into the abyss, frightened, frantic and a tad hysterical.

“HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

A loud dragging sound somewhere in the room alerted him that he may not be alone.

“Is someone there?! HEY!”

He turned back to the corner, pacing as far as his leash would allow, his hands in his hair as he thought out loud. “Shit. I’m probably dead.”

From the other end of the room, a raspy voice sounded out to him.

“You’re not dead.”

He knew that voice. He was sure he knew that fucking voice. He turned to face where the voice came from, narrowing his eyes to try make out any figure in the midnight black. In the dark, everything further than an arm's width away seemed to be the same shade of nothingness. Something more than panic- a primal sort of fear washed over him as his breath quickened and he questioned the voice in an erratic tone.

“Who’s that? Who the fuck is that?!” He called into the room, hoping that he hadn’t imagined some dismembered voice of reassurance. The voice spoke again.

“There’s no use in yelling. I already tried that.” A tired, yet calm tone carried over feelings of condescension.

“Turn on the lights!” Pete begged, uncaring of the obvious rise in the pitch of his voice

“I would if I could.”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?! WHERE AM I?!” Pete backed into the corner, touching the walls for support as he perched on an assortment of curved pipes that thrust into sharp, shattered tiled walls. He felt small and scared, like a prey animal whose mother had fled the scene for the first time. Cold and defenceless, damp and dismayed.

“I don’t know yet.”

A pungent and putrid odour filled Pete’s nostrils, almost causing him to gag. “What’s that smell?!” He exclaimed, covering his mouth and furrowing his brow in utter disgust.

“Shh! Hang on a second. I think I found something,” the voice echoed back. Signalling to Pete to stop his exaggerated boaking and gagging.

With a loud click, the humming of hospital-like fluorescent lights ignited a slow but steady stream of illumination from the voice’s side of the room to Pete’s. He squeezed his eyes shut; the sudden light felt biblically blinding as the darkness was consumed by clinical white overheads. Squinting in pain, he held his hands up to his face as if he was casting away the sun itself. He peeled his eyes open little by little amongst a whispered choir of soft groans. Adjusting to the light, his eyes scanned the room. Tiles coated every wall, a few were missing and a lot were discoloured with grime and shades of brown he didn’t want to think of the origin of. He shuddered at the thought, letting his eyes wander more.

On the other side of the room, there he stood. A familiar face staring back at him. He was taller, with light brown hair in a mess above a pair of white and black glasses. His face was angular, pretty even, with a sharp jawline and nose to complement it. The veins in his arms looked almost glossy under the gleam of beaming lights. He wore a tight T-shirt and even tighter black jeans. Upon closer inspection, the words ‘JOY DIVISION’ could be made out in faded white text on the sweaty, dulled and greying shirt. A smooth black leather belt with some sort of decorative buckle adorned his dangerously low-waisted jeans. Pete felt the hairs on his neck stand up, and for the second time, he thought to himself, ‘FUCK’

The man across from him stepped forward, his head bowed towards the floor, a sort of shell-shocked expression parting his lips. Horror consumed his features as Pete watched him. After a second's hesitation, his eyes followed the boy’s trail.

A still spreading pool of blood lay between them, and within that, a body. Lying face down, wearing only a pair of boxers and a now blood-soaked white T-shirt. He was bald, though his head hosted a disgusting reveal of brain matter splattered on the back of the skull. Pete was frozen; he’d never seen a dead body before, and now a gruesomely mutilated one lay only a few feet in front of him. He felt sick, dizzy and weak. The corpse grasped a gun in one hand and a tape player in the other.

“HOLY SHIT!” Pete screamed, breaking the silence and finally reacting to the scene before him. He hobbled over to the bathtub from where he had risen and began coughing and gagging up nothing. From the corner of his eye, he saw his apparent cellmate standing closer to the carcass, examining it with a look of fear and concern. Pete stops hacking up air, his stomach aching at the phantom release, and turns to face the body once more. His eyes dart from the corpse, to the walls, to the chains on both of their feet. He began to scream and wail, begging and yanking on his restraints.

“HELP!! SOMEBODY FUCKING HELP ME PLEASE!” He shouted, falling to the floor and using all his strength to pull at the chain.

“HELP ME PLEASE! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP!”

“No one can hear you.” The other chained prisoner replied, as if above the emotional response, his tone cold and bitter.

Rage prickles through Pete, but he suppresses it and stops wrestling with the chain; he tries to control his breathing, but the ragged heaviness is too strong for him to settle on command. He stood up from the dirty floor, his voice not yelling, but still clearly emotional.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Calm down, just calm down.” The voice was smooth and gentle, as if talking to a tantrum-throwing toddler. “Are you hurt?”

Pete looks down at himself. The shackled ankle stinging slightly from the friction of metal rubbing against it, and his chest ached from the half-drowning attempt he endured, but otherwise, he was fine. Nothing too painful. “I don’t know… kinda, yeah!”

The voice spoke calmly, contrasting Pete’s frantic responses. “What’s your name?”

The question felt like a kick in the teeth. After 8 months, he was nothing more than a notch in his bedpost, a tally added to the ever-growing list of conquests. For 8 months, Pete hadn’t touched anyone else, let alone fucked them. He’d written songs and poems about a boy that didn’t even know his name. He knew he was obsessive, he knew he was in too deep, but for now, he had to swallow down the parts of him that wanted to bubble and scream, and play the game.

“My name is very fucking confused!” Pete jabbed sarcastically before demanding, “What’s your name? What’s going on here!?”

The brunette rolled his eyes, agitated by the answer he was given. He sighed loudly, “My name is Mikey- Michael Way. I’m a bassist. I just… woke up here. Just like you.” He reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, the heat from the lights brewing beads of sweat to form on his pale skin.

Pete turns away, facing the pipes that clung to the walls. He knelt back down in front of them, pulling at his chains once more, but with far less blind desperation and panic than his previous attempts. He winces as the cuff bites into his skin, welcoming a tut of disapproval from the other man in the room who was observing his behaviour.

“You recognise him? The body?”

Pete ignores the question, continuing to jerk the chain that tethered him to the rusted tubing. He doesn't turn to look at the dead man, nor the alive one interrogating him; he shakes his head, muttering sharply, “No.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Nothing!” Pete snaps; he turns his attention from the restraints and tosses a growling look halfheartedly over his shoulder. “I went to sleep in my shithole apartment and woke up in an actual shithole!” He threw his arms into the air, emphasising his prominent annoyance, as if the delivery of the statement wasn’t clear as day. He raised his left leg slightly, trying pathetically to pull his foot out from the cuff, sneaking a glance at his new roommate, who had shifted over to the other side of the wall and was slightly hunched, leaning on a pipe. He seemed relaxed, far too relaxed. “So what about you, huh? How’d you end up here?”

It was now Pete’s turn to do the interrogating. He watched as the boy shook his head, shrugging and stuttering on his words, “well there’s… there’s not much to tell, really.”

Pete paused his fight with the iron links and sat facing the other man, cocking his head. He continued, “I was on my way back to the bus, uh, after a show, and I- I don’t remember anything else”

Pete just sat there, the words leaving his head just as fast as they had entered, as he glanced over the third person in the room. The initial panic had settled into a gentler version of fear and shock; his voice softened as he spoke. “First dead body I've seen. They look different in real life. They don’t move…” He trailed off, eyes locked on the lifeless man between them.

Across the room, the taller man lowered himself onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall. He jiggled the chain that didn’t let him comfortably sit, muttering, “From the looks of these chains, someone didn’t want us to go very far.” He let go of the chain, letting the clattering sound ring against the ceramic tiles. Suddenly, Pete leaps up from the ground, fumbling with the fabric of his hoodie and t-shirt, lifting them to expose his bare abdomen and lower back. His panic was definitely back, although less intense; he examined himself, oblivious to the other boy already gawking too.

“Do you see any scars!?” Pete barked, turning on the spot to show as much skin as he could. His cellmate looked at him strangely, leaning forward to double check with a very prolonged gaze, “What?”

Pete turned to fully display his stomach, hiking up the bunched red fabric as far as it would go “Huh? This is what they do, man!” He gestured to his slightly toned, tanned midriff. “They kidnap you, drug you, and before you know it, you’re in a fucking bathtub, and your kidneys are on eBay!”

Mikey scoffed, rolling his eyes, “No one has taken your kidneys”

“How can you tell from all the way over there?” Pete thrust the hoodie back down his torso.

“Because you’d either be in terrible agony, or you’d be dead by now.”

“What are you, a surgeon?”

“Do you seriously think you’d still be alive with missing kidneys?”

“Maybe! I don’t fucking know!” Pete huffs, slumping back down to prod at the chain once again. The silence is thick in the room, the faint ticking and not-so-faint scratching of metal against porcelain are the soundtrack to the tense atmosphere.

“So, you gonna tell me your name, or what?”

Pete stands back up, turning to Mikey with a much calmer demeanor “Pete. Peter Wentz.”

Mikey gets to his feet, far less irritated than before. “Well, Pete-” He leans one arm out to lean against one of many oversized, oxidised ducts that patterned the tarnished walls. “-we need to think about why we’re here.” Pete simply watches, consoled, but still somewhat on edge. He hums and furrows his brow, trying to piece together any sort of clues that are scattered in his brain. He comes up short for answers.

“Whoever brought us here could’ve killed us by now”, Mikey began to pace, gesturing at nothing as he spoke. “But they didn’t. They must want something from us,” His eyes scan the room. “But what?”

Pete just shrugs in response, his gaze locked on the fetter that keeps him in this nightmare.

Mikey prattles on, mumbling and squinting at what seems like every tile in the walls and floor. He shuffles forward slightly, the abrading echo of his shackles piquing Pete’s interest. “What is it?”

“That clock.”

“What about it?” He focuses on it, seeing the hands ticking steadily along. Just shy of 1 o’clock.

“It’s brand new.”

“So?” Pete quizzes, not quite caught up on what Mikey is getting at.

“So? Someone obviously wanted us to know the time.” Mikey sighed, the irritation slowly coming to a simmer again.

Pete has a clueless sort of vacant look plastered on his face. He mulled over the observation as Mikey wandered as far as his chain would allow, tilting his head slightly at the battered metal door that caged them in the rank bathroom. Mikey’s voice cuts his pondering short.

“Wait, I think I can maybe reach the door!” He leans as far as he can, slamming against the reinforced barricade with his full body weight, but seeing as he weighs about the same as a bag of sugar, the door didn’t even squeak at the impact. Pete stands to watch the show, internally laughing at the poor attempt at jailbreak. He pauses, looking away from Mikey and down at his jeans. They were form-fitted usually, but they became skin-tight from the absorption of the bath contents, and clung to his legs like they were vacuum sealed on. Mikey continued to batter against the door, somehow still determined to break through the thick steel. He began to pat down his pockets, but his hoodie was empty. The front two pockets of his jeans were too, but in the back pocket, he felt it. Crinkling, something hard and rectangular pressed into him. He took a sharp breath and wriggled his fingers between the layers of damp, faded denim. Preparing for the worst, like a stick of dynamite or a tiny bed of nails, he fished out whatever it was. What he pulled out was far less threatening. A clear Ziploc bag, and within it, a sheet of paper. He unfolded the thin plastic, opening it to be met with an envelope, ‘PETER.’ scrawled in thick, black marker on the front. He stared at it in his hands, feeling a small weight inside. He toyed with the idea of telling Mikey, or throwing it in the tub behind him, but a larger part of him wanted to just rip it open, rip the bandaid off.

Just as he had settled on revealing the contents, Mikey looked over his shoulder. Pete tore the envelope, revealing a small cassette tape inside. He plucked the tape from the paper walls and held it with two fingers, studying it. Two simple words were written on the front label. ‘PLAY ME.’

Mikey turns away from the door, finally giving up on the idea of brute force being the escape route. He looked over, trying to see whatever Pete was examining.

“What is that?”

Pete didn’t answer; he just flipped the tape over in his hand, squinting at the same message written on the other side. “Excuse me!” Mikey’s impatience was the cue Pete needed to momentarily snap out of his inspection. He glanced up briefly “It’s a tape?” he more so questioned than stated, both startled and surprised at the discovery.

“Where did you find it?”

“It was in my pocket.”

Mikey mulled the thought over for a second before starting to dig through his own pockets. Like Pete, in his back pocket, there was an envelope proudly displaying ‘MICHAEL’ in the same lettering as Pete’s.

“It says play me,” Pete mumbled as Mikey emptied the contents of his letter into the palm of his hand. He held up a similar tape to Pete’s, the same message on the shell. Next was a singular bullet; he prods it, and his eyes linger on it for a few seconds before pocketing it, unsure of its purpose. Upon shaking the envelope once more, a small key is revealed. For the first time in this room, a smile graced his lips. He dropped to the floor instantly, trying to unlock the cuff around his ankle. The key will not turn. “C’mon, c’mon, come on!” he mumbles to himself. Pete watched on, noticing that the key seemed to be a dud.

“Throw it over here!”

Pete is greeted with a sceptical look, but Mikey holds up the key and launches it across the room. It clinks to the floor, on his side but not in his eyeline. He searches along the tiles and the moulded grout, finding it lying at the base of a cracked ceramic toilet. He picks up the tiny key, rushing to try it on his own shackle to no avail. He tries the padlock, clamping the chain to the pipe, but it doesn’t fit into the slim keyhole. “FUCK!” he slams the key onto the floor, cracking a browned tile with the sharp force of it.

“No?” Mikey asks, already knowing the answer.

Pete shakes his head, grumbling something under his breath before setting eyes on the body. The blood, the stained shirt, the obliterated skull, the gun.

The Walkman.

Pete lies down on his stomach, reaching his arms out as far as they can go, the pull on his ankle almost dislocating it as he stretches and groans. He couldn’t reach. The body was about three feet in front of him, and the outstretched arm even further than that.

“Use your hoodie, Pete.”

“What?” Pete tilts his head up to look puzzled at Mikey.

“Your hoodie, use it to get the tape thingy.”

Pete shuffles to his knees, pushing up with a moan as the iron around his foot clatters sharply into his bone. He looked down at himself, huffing and unzipping the ruby coloured hoodie, silently hoping he wouldn’t get any of the coagulating blood on his favourite garment. He wraps one of the sleeves around his hand, clenching his fist, then lies back down, stretching and throwing the hoodie towards the corpse’s cold hand. The zip sounded against the floor, the outstretched sleeve slipping right off the player. He reels the hoodie back in and attempts to catch it again; this time, it lands just shy of the Walkman.

“Come on, Pete, try it again!” Mkey encouraged, eagerly watching the scene unfold.

Pete tries again, only slightly tugging the cassette player from the rigor-mortis stiffened clasp of the deadman’s hand.

“It won’t work!” Pete pulls the hoodie back, getting back up on his knees in aggravation.

“Look around! There’s gotta be something else you can use!”

“There’s nothing!” Pete staggers to his feet, ready to accept defeat.

“Well, there must be something!”

Pete huffs, looking around him. Nothing. There’s nothing but dirt and grime and off-white flooring. No loose pipes or tools around him. “I’m not taking my jeans off,” he stated, wandering to the bathtub.

“I wouldn’t ask you-” The sound of jingling metal stops his sentence. Pete pulls up the plug from the tub, a long, beaded cord tied to the rubber. “Yes!” he whispers to himself, tying a knot around the arm of the hoodie. He slides onto the floor again, kneeling on all fours as he lines up his aim. The plug bounces off the floor, rolling on its axis away from the Walkman. Pete curses under his breath.

“Come on, man, you can do it!” Mikey encourages from across the room.

Pete inhales deeply, nodding to himself as he tries again, failing by an even further distance than before.

“Come on, Pete, again!”

Pete shoots Mikey a dagger, mumbling some sort of half-hearted insult as he slumps further, stomach down, onto the freezing ground, aiming for another attempt at shifting the player. He launches the hoodie and makeshift anchor across the floor, closing his eyes as he strains his arm, bracing himself for another shortcoming.

“YES!” Mikey exclaimed in victory as Pete’s eyes fluttered open. He’d done it. The rubber stopper had landed through the wired loop that poked up from the dead man’s hand. He glances at Mikey, who is smiling in relief. A look Pete had seen before in a far more intimate fashion. He shook his head to rid the Etch-A-Sketch thought, smiling to himself as he slowly drew the fabric closer to his body. Little resistance came from the carcass as the walkman travelled along the uneven path back to Pete. He untangled the cord from the wire, tossing his hoodie alongside it behind him, clambering to his knees, he opened the Walkman and placed his tape inside. He clicked the cover shut and pushed a few of the unfamiliar buttons before a crisp static began to play. Mikey stepped as close as he could, holding his breath to listen to the recording. A coughing, raspy voice soon filled the air.

“Rise and shine, Peter.-” The pair exchanged puzzled looks as the tape continued.

“- You’re probably wondering where you are. I’ll tell you where you might be. You might be in the room you die in!” Pete’s breath hitched as he gulped down the instant bile in his throat. Mikey stayed silent.

“- Up until now, you’ve simply sat on the sidelines, comfortably behind a screen, watching as the object of your desires lives out your dream life. But what do voyeurs see when they look in the mirror? Now, I see you as a strange mix of someone angry and apathetic. But mostly just pathetic. So are you going to watch yourself die today, Peter? Or do something about it?”

The tape rolls out with a crackle, humming as the audio goes flat. Pete stood still, the player winding in his hand as he stared blankly in front of him. Mikey shuffled slightly, going to say something as Pete pressed the stop button on the tape. “I- I don’t get it.”

Mikey doesn’t know what to say, though he feels a small urge to comfort the obviously shaken boy. He pulls his tape from his pocket, fumbling with it to try to catch Pete’s attention. It does. Pete lifts his head, glum and dejected. He peers at Mikey from behind his askew fringe, observing as he fidgets with his own message from the assumed captor. The air is thick, the silence is only pricked by the audible passing of time on the clock face and the soft slap of plastic against flesh as it’s tossed in Mikey’s palm.

“Throw me the player?”

“What?” Pete chirps back, instinctually clutching the Walkman tighter.

“Throw me the player.” Mikey demands rather than asks.

Pete pauses, thinking before replying, “No. You throw me your tape.”

Mikey sighs heavily, shooting Pete a dumbfounded look as he begins to pace in an oblong shape. He runs his hands through his hair and drags them down his face. “Look, we’re gonna have to work together if we want out of here, Pete. Now, just throw it to me.”

Pete immediately pulled the gadget to his chest, picking up a higher tone, “I’m not gonna risk breaking it! You throw me your tape!”

Mikey pauses, taking a shaking deep breath, catching his tongue before it can spit venom back at the other prisoner. “Fine,” he scoffed, raising his arm to throw the tape. It lands behind Pete, skidding to the hit off a patch of exposed concrete on the back wall. Pete mopes over to its landing place, kneeling to pick it up. He swaps out his own tape for Mikey’s, standing up and pressing play. The same hair-raising voice rang through the room.

“Michael Way, this is your wake-up call. Every day of your life, the tabloids and screaming fans say your music saves lives. Now you will be the one to take lives. Your aim in this game is to kill Peter.” Pete looks from the recorder to Mikey, wide-eyed, taking a step backwards as the tape continues.

“You have until six on the clock to do it. There’s a man in the room with you. When there’s that much poison in your blood, the only thing left to do is shoot yourself.” The message is interrupted by a wheezing, hacking cough on the recording, both listeners raising an eyebrow at the unexpected interval.

“There are ways to win this hidden all around you. Just remember, X marks the spot for the treasure. If you do not kill Pete by 6 o’clock, then Gerard, Raymond and Frank will die, Michael. And I'll leave you in this room to rot. Let the game begin.” The audio sizzles as the static muffles the commencement, shortly rolling into a humming quiet as the tape ends. Pete presses pause on the player, looking Mikey in the eye with a cocktail of fear, sadness and anger stirring within him.

“Give me that. Now.” Mikey orders. Pete doesn't hesitate as he throws the Walkman over the stiffening body into Mikey’s hands. Mikey rewinds the tape, pressing it to his ear as he listens.

“Gerard, Raymond and Frank will die, Michael. And I'll leave you in this room to rot-”

“Any idea who that is?” Pete whispers, frightened of the unknown answer. “He knows us.” He adds.

“Wait a minute.” Mikey holds up his hand to shush Pete’s rambling and rewinds the tape once more.

“What do you think? Probably some kinda joke, right?”

“SHHH! SHH!”

“Let the game begin.” plays from the Walkman, the volume now cranked up. Mikey whispers a quick “Listen”, instructing Pete to keep his trap shut for a minute more. On the tape, in a faint, hushed tone that’s riddled with static, the cruel, scratchy voice murmurs, “Follow your heart.” Mikey stops the tape.

“What the fuck does ‘Follow your heart’ mean?” Pete questions, his face screwed up in confusion. Mikey scans the room, searching every surface for something heart-shaped. Splattered in blotches of streaky brown, he spots it. On the front of the toilet tank is a finger-painted uneven heart, in the same faecal colour as the other smearings on the porcelain throne.

“There! Right next to you, on the toilet!” He points, jumping at his grand revelation and inviting Pete to take a gander at his discovery. Pete looks over to the toilet, stepping forward and bending down in front of it, his hands carefully placed on the least excrement-encrusted parts of the rim. He looks down into the cocktail of piss, shit and God knows what else that brewed to the lip of the bowl, it seemed to be almost breathing, like a rising tide. The urge to vomit hit like a punch to the gut, but he swallowed the liquid fire back down his raw throat and stared into the brown sewage, unsure of what exactly he was meant to be looking for. Mikey gestures as if to say ‘hurry up’ as he ushers him to scavenge for the next clue. “Come on, Pete!”

Pete looks up from the blend of muck, ‘you’ve gotta be kidding me’ nonverbally expressed by the look on his pale face. Mikey looks on expectantly, and Pete sighs. ‘I guess I'm doing this,’ he thinks to himself, grimacing and plunging his hand into the wet waste. He swirls his hand, pushing deeper into the biohazard as he gagged and spluttered spit.

“Oh God,” he mutters between sore, dry heaves, shortly pulling his arm out and desperately trying to shake some of the shit from his hand in pure disgust.

“Anything?” Mikey asks expectantly.

“No solids!” Pete grumbles, disgusted and looking around for something to wipe his contaminated hand with, still convulsing on his knees.

“Take off the lid!” Mikey points, losing patience. “Come on, man!”

Pete shoots him a perplexed look, stunned by the audacity of the man that isn't covered in shit, piss and bile. He stands up with a huff, lifting the lid from the tank and placing it down on the toilet seat. There was actual water inside, despite its pale brown shade, along with a black plastic bag. Pete fishes it out -taking an extra few seconds to try rinse the hardening cast of faeces from his hand and forearm- and holds it up to Mikey, clearly unimpressed.

“I really wish I had checked in there first.” He stated, lowering the bag.

Mikey smiled faintly, “What is it?”

Pete tears into the bag, reaching in and pulling out two seemingly new hacksaws. He drops the bag to the floor with a minute thud, dropping to his knees and picking up his chain. He places one of the tools to the side of him and begins to saw at the restraint. Mikey watches for a moment before calling over.

“Hey!” Pete turns around to see Mikey with his arms crossed. “Mind passing me the other one!?”

Pete grabs the other discarded implement, swivelling on his knees and carefully aiming and throwing it to Mikey. It skelped off a pipe just off the side of him. Seeing this, he rushes over and picks it up, sitting down to mirror Pete’s actions of trying to free himself from the iron confinement that latched to his ankle. As Mikey’s back is turned, Pete picks up the discarded bag and quickly tosses it into the bathtub beside him, shortly returning to sawing his own chain furiously. A few minutes pass, and Pete has only dulled the teeth of the saw, barely making a scratch on the tough metal. The blade snaps as he applies more pressure, and his temper explodes like a volcanic eruption.

“FUCK!” He bawls, enraged. His reaction turns violent as he batters the broken tool against the thick pipe in front of him. “FUCK!” he repeats as he launches the useless instrument, flying across the room. It smacks into a clouded mirror high up on the wall, sending pieces shattering across the floor. Mikey glances over to see what exactly the commotion is, returning to sawing his shackle after a quick look at the tantrum. Pete thuds down on the floor, his breathing heavy and rapid as he puts his head in his hands, digging his nails in as he squeezes in frustration.

Mikey gives up about a minute later, turning to slump his back against the wall. He sits with the saw in his lap, inspecting it as realisation bubbled to the surface in his mind. He holds it up, turning it to study it before he shakes his head, understanding now what the purpose of the hacksaw really is.

“He doesn’t want us to cut through our chains,” he states, looking up from the sharp, serrated blade.

“What?”

“He wants us to cut through our feet.”

Pete raises his eyebrows, meeting Mikey's eyes across the pool of blood that had begun to noticeably smell of metal, ignoring the third member of the party, he tilted his head in bewilderment.

“I think I might know who’s done this to us.” Mikey mumbles just loud enough for Pete to hear.

“What did you say!?” Pete staggers to his feet, immediately accusatory.

“It’s not someone I know personally! It’s just… someone I know of.”

“Tell me, who is it!?” Pete demands, throwing his arms up and pacing around.

“The last I heard, the police still hadn’t caught him.”

Pete jerks his hand, scrunching his brow and nose as he presses Mikey to continue.

“The only reason I know is because I was a suspect-”

“WHAT!?” “What the fuck?”

“Sit down, I’ll start from the beginning."

Pete obliges, distrustful and still puzzled about the whole thing.

“The newspapers started calling him the Jigsaw Killer, something about him carving a puzzle piece into his victims.” Pete looks somehow even more confused; he was completely oblivious to the whole thing.

“Actually, technically speaking, he’s not really a murderer. He’s never killed anyone.” Mikey continued.

“What?”

“He finds ways for the victims to kill themselves.”

“How the fuck do you know this?”

“I was on tour with my band, a support act for a few bigger bands. I was at the merch tent, meeting a few fans and signing some stuff with my brother, a journalist for Kerrang! I think? Something like that. She came over for an interview; she’d been following the tour, so I'd seen her around a few times, and she was asking questions about the setlist and stuff. I remember this kid cut in, he’s been at basically every show, always at the barrier. I’ve tossed him countless picks and a few sticks from the drummer, so he was a familiar face. I let him interrupt, nice kid. He asked for a specific song, and I said I'd see what I could do for him, and then two cops showed up, asking for me. They ushered me away, leading me just outside the fences where the buses pulled in and started questioning me on my whereabouts a few nights before. We’d had an off day in the new city we rolled into, so I was just at a few bars and ended up at a hotel downtown. I told them that, but with no concrete proof, they asked to take me down to the station. I told them I had to be on stage in a few hours, but they said it would only take an hour or two. My brother and my friend Ray came up to the gate to see what was going on, and the police said they were taking me for questioning at the station and to maybe try to find a stand-in for the show.” Mikey rubs his face, trying to recount the details as best he can. Pete stared at him like he was an alien, not finding any dots to connect in the story so far.

“We got in the car and arrived at the police station after like 10 minutes. I was told to wait in the interrogation room. I sat in there for about 15 minutes, and one of the cops - the scarier guy- came in. I asked why I was being questioned, and he pulled out two evidence bags. Picks I’d thrown into the crowd through the tour were in them. They asked if they were mine, and I said yeah, they have my name printed on them, so I couldn’t really deny it. I tried to explain that I give them to fans at the end of a show, but he cut me off with more accusations. His partner came in, saying how my lawyer had arrived. I hadn’t called anyone, so my brother or the tour manager or something must’ve arranged an attorney for me. Anyway, the cop left me with the lawyer guy, and I explained that I didn't know how my prints would show up at a crime scene. He was taking notes on what I was saying the whole time. He asked if I had any proof of my alibi, if I was with anyone who could consolidate it, and I had to tell him I was hooking up with someone. A fan I’d met at the bar, I didn’t keep his number, so I had no way to contact the guy, and I didn’t remember his name. I was really drunk. He told me I had to bite the bullet and tell the police my alibi now, because no one would believe me later. I didn’t exactly want to admit that, I didn’t want it to get out to tabloids or anything like that because I’d- I’d taken a lot of coke that night.”

Mikey twiddled his fingers, ashamed of admitting this to what basically is a stranger to him. Pete looked through his curling fringe, yet another verbal kick to the teeth was vocalised in passing. Mikey didn’t remember this hookup’s name, so no wonder he doesn’t recognise him. He felt that familiar sinking feeling form a pit in his stomach. He wanted to shout at him, tell him what an inconsiderate prick he is, some sharp insult to vent his frustrations on just being a past body to someone he wanted, someone he chased after like a race dog seeing a rabbit. Hot tears prickled in his chocolate brown eyes, but he didn’t dare let them fall. Mikey cleared his throat and continued, resting his hands on his knees.

“The lawyer left. Probably to talk to the police and tell them the name of the bar or something. They came in after about a half hour. I was scared shitless, I had just about two hours till soundcheck and thought I was definitely gonna spend a night in a cell. The band was going to the next stop on the tour after this show, so I’d be stranded with no phone or wallet. I couldn’t get home or back to the bus if they kept me in. Eventually, the two officers came back in, saying they checked out my alibi, and I asked if I was free to go. They asked me to stay and listen to a girl’s testimony. I said I really had to get back to the venue, but they kinda ordered me to stay to see if it ‘triggered something’. I watched through the glass as the girl started talking. She had been the only person to survive the Jigsaw Killer. She said what happened to her, some sort of contraption was locked on her head, it would rip her jaw right off her face if she didn’t complete the trial. She had to gut a guy for the key. She was told the guy was dead, but she said he was breathing, looking at her as she stuck the knife in his stomach. She got the key out just in time; the thing on her head went off just as she managed to get it out of her mouth. She was really shaken up, man, she had cuts around her mouth, and she looked ill. It was awful, hearing that. I can't imagine what she went through.” Mikey sniffled a bit, pushing a deep breath out from his mouth as he readjusted himself on the floor, his knees now pulled to his chest.

“The cops said the guy, the cellmate as the girl called him, had opioids in his system, paralysing him. They asked if the girl was a drug addict and asked if she thinks that’s why she was chosen. She was crying, she couldn’t speak, she just nodded. The cop in the room with her asked if she was grateful. And she said the Jigsaw Killer helped her. She was sobbing into her hands, and the officer in the room with me was staring at me as I sat there, completely shocked. They drove me back to the venue at that point. I had an hour till soundcheck and had to scramble for my bass and try to push down what I was feeling. Before I got out of the car, the bigger cop said something to me that still sticks with me. He said he had arrested a singer at a smaller venue in the city who had been involved with underage fans. He said musicians all drink from the same water when touring. That was 5 months ago, I've not heard anything apart from in the local news when passing through a few cities.”

Pete sits in his corner, staring at the floor as he digests Mikey’s story. He looks across to Mikey, asking in a soft voice, “Are you sure it's him?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Pete grows frenzied for what feels like the millionth time in their few hours in the bathroom. He runs his hands through his hair, struggling to swallow the accusations that soon flowed from his mouth. “How do I know you’re telling the truth!?” He points at Mikey’s surprised face that followed Pete’s outburst. “You could be the bastard that put me here!”

Mikey rolls his eyes, the flame of anger and frustration now infecting him too. He bites his lip, shaking his head and exhaling to try to put out the fire that had ignited within him. He speaks lowly and slowly, “I’m in the same exact situation as you are, Pete.”

“WRONG!” Pete stands up from his place on the floor, kicking his chained food out to allow more length. “WRONG! You’ve got one thing I don't: Information!” He shifts as far as he can, trying to make himself seem bigger like a frightened cat, pointing over as he shouts across their unwilling setting. “You know who did this!” He picks up a shard of the smashed mirror from his earlier tantrum and holds it up in an attempt to intimidate Mikey, to which Mikey rolls his eyes. “Now you either tell me what is really going on-” Mikey smirks at the performance, a jolly good show really, seeing as he’s chained up about 20 feet away from him. “-Or I’ll cut you with this! You hear me!? I’ll cut-” Pete stops himself, paying attention to the makeshift blade in his hands, flipping it over, studying it, then back over again, his head sharply turning to the mirror on the wall.

Mikey notices that Pete’s poor threats have come to an early conclusion, lifting his head from staring at the floor, the only thing he could think to do that would conceal his amusement at Pete’s dramatics. He looks between the mirror and the now focused man on the other side of the room. “What?”

Pete looks over, his eyebrows slightly pushed down, “It’s a two-way mirror.”

Pete places the shard on the floor carefully, rummaging in the corner of the room and coming back to Mikey’s direct eyeline with a loose padlock. He lifts it as if pitching a baseball, sending it full force into the rest of the remaining mirror, sending sharp pieces cascading across the grubby ground. He reaches down, this time picking up a part of the mostly destroyed mirror frame and launches it against the final sliver of reflective glass that remained on the now dented wall. The rest of the glass breaks away, leaving nothing but a quarter of the frame mounted to the wall. Behind the deceptive reflections is another sheet of reinforced glass, and imprisoned behind the small cuboid cut out from the concrete was a camera, the red light recording light bright and steady as Pete steps closer. Mikey stands up, following suit and moving closer to get a better look at their electronic voyeur.

Pete starts shouting like a madman, waving an accusatory finger at the device. “Can you hear me in there, huh!?” His voice was rich with blatant sarcasm as he continued striking a supposedly threatening, violent pose. “I’m having a blast!” He snatches another piece of the sharp debris and sends it to strike the glass. “This is the most fun I’ve had without lubricant!” He grabs another piece of broken glass, walloping it against the protective layer of the camera’s now uncovered hiding spot. “Make sure you’re getting everything!” He remarks, retrieving another fragmented chip from the floor, aiming to throw another small rebellion against their watcher.

“That’s not going to break the glass.” Mikey scoffs.

“You just wanna leave it running on us!?”

“Well, you can’t stop it.” Mikey gestures to the unscathed panel, “That’s why we can’t cut through these chains, why you won’t break the glass. Every possible angle has been thought out by him!” He begins to line up the pins on the mental corkboard, connecting the dots on the elaborate setup. “This is shitty, but it’s brilliant. A brilliant design.” He mumbles under his breath. Pete swirls Mikey's words around his head; he’s far too focused on flinging whatever he can at the glass, but he quickly runs out of things to throw. “You sound like you admire this prick.” He replies, chuckling in disbelief.

“To overcome something, you’ve got to understand what a perfect engine it is. That’s how doctors fight disease, that’s how you write a meaningful song.”

“Not everything’s about your shitty music.”

Mikey casts him a look of disbelief, a small pang in his chest is covered with a matter-of-fact tone as he glances up to the ceiling. “The tape told us to find an X. It has to be somewhere in this room. Help me find it.”

Pete doesn’t move a muscle, a silent protest against the request for his aid. Mikey scans the walls as Pete becomes angrier. How the fuck can he stay levelheaded in a moment like this? It’s irritating, really. The whole facade of undisturbed composure will surely falter soon, right?

“How can you be all calm and collected when your band is probably getting tortured by some freak out there!?” Pete burst, clenching his fists in frustration as he snapped.

“ I AM thinking about that!” Mikey roars back, now facing Pete. “I’ve been thinking about the last thing I said to Frank.” He adds somberly.

Pete immediately softens, guilt slowly rising within him. No one would notice he was gone, he’s off tour, he hasn’t seen his friends in weeks, and his family for longer. But Mikey does, he’s got people that are suffering with him. He silently thanks his lucky stars that his loved ones are, to the best of his knowledge, removed from this. He regrets not calling more. The iniquity he feels for Mikey urges him to comfort him.

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. He probably feels the same way.”

“No, he doesn’t, he was right.”

“What did you say to him?” Pete speaks softly, encouraging Mikey to get it off his chest.

Mikey looks up from his focal point on the ground before him, pushing down the urge to cry. His voice cracks as he begins the story: “It was just me and him on the bus. My brother was spending the night on another band’s bus, and the other guitarist, Ray, was at a bar, I think? I don’t really remember. We’d just arrived in Chicago for the next show. I was in my bunk, and he opened the curtain, looking like he’d seen a ghost or something. He said he thought there was someone outside the bus. I told him it was probably the crew or something, but he was adamant it was something else. I called him a pussy and went out to check while he sat in the kitchen near the door. I couldn’t see anything. I thought he was just overreacting because it was only us, and he’s an anxious guy. I told him that there wasn’t anyone out there and to quit being a baby. We’re writing and coming up with new stuff for the next album, and we’re butting heads a lot, so we’re not really on the best of terms right now. He blew up at me and called me a dick, and we were arguing stupidly, throwing insults left, right and centre. I got a text on my phone, and I checked it as he was going on about how inconsiderate I am, which is kinda fair at that moment. It was a text from a guy I'd met a few nights before, telling me I could come meet him now, so I started putting my shoes on to leave, which really annoyed Frank. He asked if I was really going to leave him alone when someone was sneaking around the bus, and I-” Mikey’s voice wavers. He takes a deep breath,h and his shoulders slump as if he’s starting to fold in on himself.

“I told him I didn't care what happened to him. That was the last thing I said to him as I walked out the door.”

“Jesus man, I’m sorry it went down that way.” Pete comforts, feeling out of his depth on the situation.

“We used to be best friends before this stupid album thing,” Mikey mutters, searching his pockets for his wallet. He finds it in a back pocket of his jeans, pulling it out, opening the gatefold and flicking through a few small photos he kept in the card flaps of his wallet. He smiles bittersweetly at a photo of himself with Frank. They were sitting on the couch in the Eyeball Records house, each holding up a beer, smiling into the camera as they huddled close, with an arm over each other's shoulder. He looked through the other photos, one of Ray and him jamming together that his brother had taken, a photo of him and his parents, and one of him and Gerard dressed as Batman and Robin as kids, which caused him to chuckle to himself, relieving some of the heaviness he felt.

“You wanna see the band?”

Pete nods, trying not to show that he already knows exactly what all the members look like already. Mikey tosses the wallet over, and Pete luckily catches it before sitting down to look over the printed images. Mikey follows after, sitting and leaning against the wall, his head raised to the heavens as he closes his eyes to try and breathe away the tears that threatened to spill from his warm hazel eyes. Pete flicks through the prints, commenting in passing as he looks through each photo. “That Mohawk is definitely something.” He chuckles, seeing the couch photo.

“Yeah, it was. Thankfully, he’s gotten rid of it now.” Mikey laughs, “There’s a picture of us all on the first day of tour in the back. My family back home always want one sent to them, but I kept the spare.”

Pete riffles through the images in Mikey's wallet, searching for this full band photo.

“It’s my favourite picture of us all together, sure, there’s photo shoots and stuff, but we all rarely take a photo together that's just for us.” Mikey rambles, a smile working its way across his lips. Pete passes the childhood snapshots and teenage memories and reaches the final picture. It’s a band photo alright, but not the one Mikey described it as. Instead of smiles and arms flung round each other in camaraderie, it shows a polaroid of 3 men bound and gagged, fear evident in their wide eyes. Under the developed image, there’s a puzzle piece scrawled in black marker. Pete takes a sharp inhale, not expecting such a sight and flips the film over. Written across the back, this time in white pen, is a message.

‘X marks the spot. Sometimes you see more with your eyes shut.’

Pete tries to keep his face neutral, hiding the disturbance that was trying to fight its way through his blank expression, as Mikey stares absently at the ceiling, he folds it up and puts it in his jeans pocket.

“It’s uh- it’s not here.”

Mikey is disturbed from his momentary nostalgia-fuelled relief, “What?”

“The photo you’re talking about…it’s not here.”

Mikey looks surprised. He reaches his hand out for Pete to toss the wallet over, “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Pete throws the worn leather back over to Mikey, instinctively placing his hand over the pocket where he concealed the removed evidence and subtly looking for the mentioned ‘X’ within the bathroom.

Mikey rakes through all the images and scraps of artist passes and gas station receipts left in his wallet, “He- he must have taken it! I-”

Pete sits down on the edge of the tub, looking at the message from inside the walls of tarnished white acrylic. Mikey stands up, grazing his fingers on the plumbing beside him, looking up and around the room. “X marks the spot… X marks the spot… we need to search this room again, solve for X.” He looks across the room to see Pete hunched over the bath, “What are you doing over there!?” he questions.

Pete ignores him, turning the Polaroid around in his hands.

“Excuse me!?” Mikey bellowed, now catching Pete’s attention for a fleeting moment.

“Just because I'm stuck in this room with you doesn't mean I have to report to you every 10 seconds,” Pete mutters, glancing up, then returning to his secret inspection of the photograph.

“I really don’t see the point in us not helping each other.” Mikey sighs exasperatedly.

Pete drops the photo into the bath, standing up in an exaggerated huff, “Well, what exactly do you want me to do, huh? I’m on a leash!”

“That’s exactly why we need to talk! We need to think!”

“I am thinking!”

“Well then, don’t keep me in the dark about what you’re thinking, Pete!” Mikey snaps.

Finally, the cogs start turning in Pete’s head. Something about the sentiment strikes him.

“Turn off the lights.”

“What?” Mikey inquires, his eyes playing table tennis between Pete and the lightswitch.

“Turn them off now, please!”

“Why?” Mikey continues to probe, totally lost on why this sudden request is being barked at him.

“Just turn them off for a second!”

Mikey casts Pete an odd look, but obliges. He treads backwards towards the switch and reaches over and flips the lights off. Pete looks around, and Mikey shortly follows, but they both don’t find anything of note.

“This isn’t gonna help us.” Mikey remarks only to be shushed by Pete.

Beside Mikey, painted on the wall, the letter X shines brightly, glowing almost. Mikey doesn’t see anything and shrugs, but Pete spots it.

“Jesus! Look behind you!”

Mikey swivels to look, surprise evident in his tone as he discovers the illuminated omen.

“How come we didn’t see this before?” Mikey steps closer to the graffiti.

“The lights in here hadn’t charged it yet. It must be glow-in-the-dark paint or something!”

Mikey turns back and turns the lights back on, causing both of them to wince at the sudden change from pitch black to blinding white. Mikey grabs the hacksaw that he had discarded on the floor and trudges over to the patch of wall where the X was painted. He bangs the metal handle of the saw against the ceramic, sending shattered white shards to fall like hail. He breaks through after completely obliterating the tiles and chipping some of the concrete. Like the camera, inside a hidden drilling and carving is a gift for him. He reaches in, careful to avoid the sharp edges of the half-broken tiles that clung to the wall, and pulls out a small brown box. He looks at Pete with a small grin on his face. He sits down on the floor and places the box in front of him. He can’t believe it. They found the treasure.

“Open it!” Pete chirps excitedly, practically jumping up and down like a child in a candy store. Mikey holds up the box, turning it to face Pete. There’s a lock on the front. The pair just stare at each other, both of them over the mind games the tape had instructed them to complete. It dawns on Mikey, “The key!”

“What?”

“The key! The one from my envelope, where is it?”

Pete begins to hunt for the small silver key, scanning the floor. “Where the fuck..” he whispers to himself, “Here!” He retrieves the key that lay half covered by a piece of the destroyed mirror in the corner of the room and chucks it over to Mikey. It lands just shy of his lap. He snatches the key from the floor and unlatches the lock. Inside are a few seemingly random objects. First, he holds up a cell phone, smiling in relief.

“Cell phone. The most beautiful invention on this planet!” Pete cheers, wearing the same grin.

Mikey chuckles and holds up the next item, one of two loose cigarettes, to which Pete lets out a joyful laugh, “Make that the second most beautiful invention!” He reaches his hand out for Mikey to throw it over, “Gimme that.”

“Are you joking? You're gonna put something you found in this room? In your mouth?”

Pete takes a short pause to think about it, eventually landing on “Yes, I’m willing to risk it!” as his answer. “Give me that sweet, sweet cancer.”

Mikey ignores his request, throwing both cigarettes and the white, brand-new lighter to the side of the box. What’s left inside is a small, neatly folded note at the bottom of the velvet-lined box, ‘Shh Rockstar’ typed in a typewriter font on the top of the creased paper.

“I don’t care. I really don’t. Give me one of those!” Pete continues to beg for a smoke as Mikey reveals the message inside for his eyes only.

‘The cigarettes are harmless, I promise. Smoking is only poisonous when it ends in bloodshed. Think about this, Michael - you don’t need a gun to kill Peter.’

“May I please have a cigarette?” Pete pesters on. Once again, Mikey ignores his plea and instead flips open the phone. “I’m trying the police.” He dials the number only to hear a strange beeping noise as if the phone has no service. He tries again, only to find the same result. Confused, he flips the phone shut. “This phone…” he mutters.

“What about it?” Pete asks.

“It was meant to receive calls, not make them.” He pauses for a second, remembering, “Wait… this has happened before.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night, when I was going back to the bus-”

“Yeah?”

“- I… I thought I was alone, but I'm sure someone else was there. There was this, like, flash of light, just off to the side. It spooked me. I looked around, but I didn't see anything. I saw a payphone. Mine was almost dead, and I wanted to call my brother and ask if I could bunk with him on the other bus because it was late. I didn’t want to see Frank. The same thing happened; the line was busy. I continued walking. The payphone was like a block away from where the bus was parked. I tried my cell again, but it started beeping when I called Gerard, and it died. I was frustrated, and I decided to just head for my own bus and deal with a probably drunk Ray and a pissed-off, snarky Frank. I reached the bus door and decided to take a second to prepare before opening the door. I got this- this sinking feeling. Like something was watching me. Like something was lurking around the back of the bus, so I fumbled for my keys to open the door. I was going as fast as I could and- and something ran at me.” He spoke vacantly, as if he were far off in his memory.

“That- that thing. It was waiting for me.” He exhaled sharply, then glanced over to Pete. He was just standing there, staring at him in a peculiar way. Something seemed a bit off.

“How did you know to turn the lights off?” Mikey asked, suspicion carrying the question.

“Who cares? It worked, didn’t it?” Pete replies, shifting on his feet.

“Yeah, but how did you know?”

Pete furrows his eyebrows, thinking before replying. “Uh… Instinct!” His tone was anything but believable.

“Instinct?” Mikey retorted, not buying Pete’s explanation one bit.

“Yeah.”

“You know what?” Mikey looks down at the box and then back to Pete, “You’re a terrible liar.”

“You say that like you know me.”

Mikey speaks calmly, but there is clear anger bubbling beneath the surface, “What else aren’t you telling me?”

Pete laughs, a cocky and sarcastic cackle rings through the air.

“Well, um, let’s see. A few years ago, my best friend Patrick punched me because I pissed in his shower. I didn’t tell you about that. I didn’t tell you that the last person I slept with-”

Mikey lowers his head into his hands; the onslaught of stupid tidbits about Pete was beginning to drive him up the wall.

“- Who was apparently in a ‘dangerous and fearless’ band, dumped me because he was afraid to admit he liked boys! Uh, I haven’t told you that my-”

“JUST STOP IT!” Mikey snaps, his head now pointed and focused at Pete as though he were aiming a rifle. “You knew to turn off these lights.”

Pete turns away, mumbling “Whatever” under his breath.

Mikey stands up, bitterness dripping from his lips. “I’m dealing with a fucking juvenile!”

The phrase cut deep for Pete. Immature, childish, foolish Pete. He’s reached his breaking point. “You really wanna know, Mikey!?”

“Yeah!”

Pete leans over the bathtub, retrieving a photo and hurling it across the room. “Here it is!” he calls as the Polaroid lands a few feet out of Mikey’s reach. Mikey looks down at it, glancing quickly at Pete, then lies stomach down on the floor and uses the box of treasures to pull it closer. He just manages to grasp it, sitting up and looking upon a picture of Gerard, Ray and Frank all imprisoned and gagged with yesterday’s eyeliner smeared down their cheeks.

“Oh God…” he whispers shakily, turning the print over in his hands. Pete’s eyes are trained to the floor, shame soon overtaking the slowly cooling vexation he felt moments prior. He couldn’t look at Mikey; he couldn’t bear to see the tears run down his pretty face.

“Where- where did you get this?” Mikey asked, small and weary.

Pete sighs, matching the tone, “It was in your wallet. Behind the photo of you and your brother as kids.”

“Why didn’t you show me this before?”

“I couldn’t do it.”

Mikey’s tears turned into shaky sobs, all attempts at composure failing as he ran his finger over his brother’s terrified face.

“I’m sorry, Mikey.”

Pete’s guilt begins to bite at him from the ankles up. He sits on the bath ledge and lowers his head, leaning forward to bury it in his hands as his elbows press hard into his knees. The weight of culpability made his head feel like a boulder. He felt heavy, wrong and dirty as he listened to his cellmate cry out for his brother and friends. He lifts the rockish weight from his palms as he notices the wailing draw to short sniffles. He watches as Mikey shakes and wipes his cheeks and eyes with his hands, turning to face the surveillance camera.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THEM YOU BASTARD?!” He shouted like a madman, waving the photograph around as he yelled. He knelt, hunched and folded in on himself, blubbering as he threatened the camera incoherently. He stared at the image in his hands; His brother's hair was brushed back out of his face. He never wears it like that. He’d never let his eyeliner smear that badly either. Ray’s hair was flattened on one side, as if he had been lying down; it looked so foreign compared to the perfectly styled curls he usually sported. And Frank? The off-white rag separating the rows of teeth was speckled with ruby around the corners of his mouth. Out of all of them, despite the fear that could be sensed through the developed film, he just looked done. As if he was prepared to see the pearly gates and shake the hand of God. The look of acceptance on his friend’s face only made him bawl harder. He’d never get the chance to apologise. They would both die knowing their last words to each other were shouted, not spoken.

Across the room, Pete let a few stray tears cross his lashline. He knew those people. Sure, it had only been a few paths barely crossing, but they were kind to him. They gave him the time of day as a smaller musician and as a fan. He didn’t care what happened to him, but he cared for Mikey and the people he loved, even if that wasn’t him. He looked through his fingers, seeing Mikey wipe his face and take a deep, ragged breath.

“Okay, I’ve got to think now.” Mikey quietly instructed himself. Pete peeked through his fingers to observe.

An idea struck Mikey as if it were a lightning bolt. He took another sharp breath and grabbed one of the cigarettes that lay like sleeping soldiers in the box in front of him. He looks to the camera, then to the corpse lying in a flood of stale bleedings and finally at Pete, whose head has returned to rest in his upturned hands. He reaches over towards the dead man as quietly as he can, dipping the lightable end of the cigarette in the poisoned blood that surrounds the stiff remnants of a bullet to the head. He retreats back, placing the poisoned smoke back in the box, the ‘Shh Rockstar’ note between the infected cigarette and its untampered twin, acting as a flimsy divider between life and death. Mikey stands up from the ground, his chain clinking against the tile, alerting Pete to look up.

“What are you doing?”

Mikey wordlessly goes to the lightswitch, flicking off the all-revealing light. The bathroom was plunged into darkness, causing Pete to panic.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing!?”

“Pete, listen to me,” Mikey whispers, praying the camera won’t pick up on his hushed tone. “I need you to play along with me on this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I need you to pretend to die. Fake your death for the camera.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“To escape!” Mikey quietly shouted, catching himself before he actually vocalised it at the volume he wanted to.

“How is that going to help, Mikey?"

“Listen to me, I got a note in that box. It told me that the cigarettes are fine, but if I dipped them in the blood, then I wouldn’t have to shoot you. That’s what I was doing when you looked up, putting the poisoned one in the box, away from the normal cigarette. C’mon, Pete, this could be our only chance.”

Pete thinks it over for a while, it seemed like a pretty foolproof plan, that is, if Mikey didn’t give him the tainted one.

“How do I know you won’t just poison me?”

“Why would I do that? I just met you, Pete. I don’t want you dead.”

Pete bit his lip; he was thankful for the darkness in this moment, because that phrase felt like he had gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. That’s right. They just met today. They are strangers. Pete doesn’t know his birthday, where he was born, his brother's full name, every song his band has released, or what he looks like naked in the faint glow of a clip-on light in a tour bus. Strangers. Complete strangers who met by chance, here today, in a dingy, scummy bathroom. Pete swallowed his pride, suffocating every part of himself that wanted to call Mikey a liar, to call him out for playing dumb, to call him an asshole and hope they both died together in this room. Instead, he answered with “Okay. I’m in.”

Mikey breathed a sigh of relief, quickly recounting the plan to Pete. “Okay, I’m gonna ask you if you still want that cigarette, reach into the box and pick up the one that isn’t dipped in blood and throw it over with the lighter. Have a few puffs, act relieved, then pretend to die and stay dead. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

Mikey flipped the lightswitch, both men shielding their eyes from the invasive illumination. They adjusted to the light, both standing awkwardly with an island of dead meat between them. Mikey looked to the camera, seeing the red light’s steady appearance, he cleared his throat and turned to face Pete.

“So, uh, you still want that cigarette?”

“Um- yeah! Sure!” Pete feigned excitement as he put his trust in Mikey not to kill him via deadman’s blood infection.

Mikey made a show of reaching into the box, stretching his arm out and riffling around as if he was looking for the right one. He grabbed the undipped cigarette and tossed it to Pete, followed by the lighter. They land just before Pete, who takes a shaky deep breath as he reaches down and picks up the cigarette and the lighter. He takes a quick look at the lightable end, noticing no red residue; he blindly trusts Mikey and places the smoke between his parted lips. He casts a quick glance at Mikey, who is watching him intently. His hand quivers as he flicks the spark wheel with his thumb. It takes a few attempts before the flame spouts from the metal. He shrugs as he inhales, lighting the cigarette and praying his death will only be fictional. He takes a long drag, hesitating to inhale but allowing himself to once he sees Mikey’s small, encouraging smile. He pulled the smoke into his lungs and exhaled with a smile and a sigh of relief. He takes another puff and suddenly freezes, clutching his chest and jerking his head in all sorts of strange manoeuvres. He begins to make these choked, almost gurgling noises as his eyes widen and he drops the cigarette to sizzle in the beads of water that litter the floor from where his sodden jeans had dripped. His body was cartoonishly pulsating, his eyes widening as he held his hand over his throat, still making erratic flailing movements and the almost squeaky choking sounds that accompanied the strange actions. The unpleasant sound amplifies as he falls to his knees. It was like he was the unpractised understudy in a shitty high school production of a Shakespeare play; all of it seemed so comically exaggerated, yet he was dedicated to his act. He slumps back a bit, reaching out in front of him dramatically as he collapses backwards like a folded deck chair. He twitches and chokes a while longer, drawing out his faux death as if it wasn’t incredibly long and poor already. Finally, he lets out a long hacking cough, closing his eyes and lying like roadkill on the bathroom floor. Mikey is in utter disbelief at the performance; he wants to roll his eyes at the unbelievable nature of it, but instead, he turns to the surveillance camera, wiping the urge to laugh from his face and praying the watcher bought the act as he puts on his best angry persona.

“There! I’ve done it! I’ve killed him with the poison, just like you wanted! Now where’s my brother!? Where’s my band!?” He shouts at the lens, hoping the door would swing open and he would be free from this prison.

On the other side of the room, pure lightning rips through Pete's calf, travelling through every nerve within him, shaking his body uncontrollably as his chain emits sharp static through him. A loud electrical hum sounds through the bathroom as Pete spasms and jerks on the floor. Mikey looks upon the convulsing body of his supposed dead cellmate in utter shock as he can hear his knuckles clattering off the tiles below him. Pete sits up, gasping and clutching his ankle, his eyes blown wide like craters on the moon.

“JESUS CHRIST!” He yelps as he catches his breath. Mikey does not react in concern, but instead in rage, in complete disbelief that Pete would ruin their one chance of escape that didn’t involve injury or fatality.

“What the fuck!” Mikey exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

“I just got fucking electrocuted, is what!”

“What?” He rolls his eyes, adding “That was our way out!” in a hushed tone.

Pete looks at him, utterly perplexed, quickly snapping back at Mikey.

“Did you hear what I just said!?” He grabs at the cuff around his foot, pulling at it and shrieking, “GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF ME! GET IT OFF!”

“Stop acting.”

Pete drops the chain, looking up to face Mikey, beyond irritated.

“You think I would make that up just to fuck up your stupid little charade!?”

“All right, that's it!” Mikey barks, picking up his saw and slamming himself down to sit on the floor, trying to hack through the chains again, grunting and huffing as he only blunts the teeth of the saw. Pete, on the other hand, just sits with his back against the pipes. His breathing was heavy as he stared off into the lights in a daze. Mikey quickly gives up, throwing the blade against the floor, huffing and still facing the wall to avoid the sight of Pete.

“I remember everything now.”

Mikey turns to look at Pete, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I remember how I got here.” Pete mumbles, a look of realisation sweeping over his features.

“What? How?”

“I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, it was late, and I was listening to music on my headphones.”

“Is that it? You ended up here by listening to music?” Mikey replied sarcastically, folding his arms and rolling his eyes.

“Will you shut up!? I’m piecing it together!”

“Right, okay. Sorry,” Mikey said defensively, holding both his hands up in jesting surrender.

“I got to the top of the stairs and unlocked my door. I usually lock it after me, but I must’ve forgotten to. I went to the kitchen to look for something to eat, but I didn’t see anything I wanted, so I headed for my studio. It’s just a spare room, but it’s got a lot of my equipment in there. The walls are soundproofed, but I usually leave the door open a bit in case someone comes to the door. I sat on my armchair, facing away from the door, pulled up my laptop, typed out a couple of things and sent some pictures from my phone to my hard drive -nothing weird! Just a few snaps from a concert I wanted to post on my blog. I got my bass out after a while, I plugged my headphones into my amp so I didn’t wake the neighbours, and I was jamming for an hour or two, writing a few new riffs to pitch to the band and stuff. I must’ve fallen asleep sitting there. I woke up with my bass on my lap and my headphones hanging off my head. All the lights were off in the room. I got up from the chair, unplugged my bass and headphones from the amp and tried to flip the switch a few times, but the room stayed dark. I don’t know why the power was out. When I left the room, I could see the light from the complex hallway under my door. It’s not as if I didn't pay the power bill. I somehow made it to the kitchen in the dark. I raided the drawers for a flashlight I had bought a few months back; it was a shitty souvenir from this random pit stop we stopped at on tour. It didn’t turn on, it just kinda flickered and died. I tried to shake it and gave it a whack off the counter, but it wasn’t working. I was grumbling and complaining to myself, and threw it back in the drawer. I heard something moving outside the kitchen door. It scared the shit outta me, I thought it was just the neighbours or something, but I heard it again, it was like something was scuttling across the floor. I checked my pockets for my phone, the flash on that is kinda shitty unless I’m taking photos, so I used that to see if there was anything outside the door. I thought the neighbour's cat had maybe wandered in again, so I called her name and didn’t hear anything. I opened the door and stepped into my hallway, asked if someone was there and took a few more photos to light my way to the living room. I called out, saying I could hear someone and used the camera flash to peek into the living room. I didn’t see anything, so I walked in, passed the couch and went to look out the window to see if I could see one of my friends' cars, maybe they’d let themselves in and decided to mess with me or something? I don’t know. I didn’t see anything anyway. Then I heard this fucking laugh behind me. I thought I was going crazy, but I turned around and took a photo. This weird-ass clown puppet thing was sitting on the couch. It was wooden and had red cheeks and weird, long hair, and a suit on. It gave me the creeps; it was really sinister-looking. I called out for my friends and said it wasn’t funny and to turn the lights on. The puppet laughed again, so I freaked out and grabbed one of the basses I have hung up on the wall in the living room and started smashing the thing. It kept cackling as I battered it with the bass; it kinda distorted the more I hit it until it stopped giggling. I heard another noise from behind me, it was coming from the storage closet where I keep jackets and stuff. I asked who was in there and shouted that I had a weapon. I opened the closet door and didn’t see anything. I took a photo to get a better look, and then this fucking thing in a pig mask and robe ran at me from behind. That’s all I remember before waking up here.”

Mikey shook his head in confusion “Why are you telling me this now?”

“I just remembered! Getting shocked must’ve tripped my memory.”

“Oh yeah, the ‘electrocution’.” Mikey mocked in irritation, “You’re still lying about that?”

“Why the fuck would I ruin our shot out of here? I don’t exactly want to be here either!”

“You’ve got nothing on the line! Your friends are safe!”

“That doesn’t mean I want yours to suffer, Mikey!”

“How do I know that? I don’t know what you’re thinking half the time! You kept the photo from me, so who knows what else you’re hiding, Pete! You could be part of this fucking hell!”

“I’m in the same position as you! I got basically drowned and electrocuted! You really think I’d do that for kicks!?”

“I don’t fucking know, do I!? You could be one of those masochists who like that shit!”

“Funnily enough, I didn’t exactly like waking up with a lung full of water! And I certainly did not fucking enjoy getting shocked by-”

Pete’s rebuttal was cut short by the phone that lay in the box suddenly playing a cheery ringtone. The pair locked eyes, both confused by the sudden eruption of such an upbeat sound in the room. Mikey slowly reached down and grabbed the phone, carefully flipping it open and answering the incoming call.

“Hello? Who is this?” He asked as he pressed the phone to his ear, unsure of who to expect on the burner phone’s other line.

“Mikey?” a voice sobbed down the phone.

Mikey quickly stood up, his hand going to his hair as he spoke hopefully, “Frank?”

“Mikey, is that you?”

“Yeah, Frankie, it’s me.” He sniffled, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips in the bittersweetness of the moment. Pete watched on intently, studying the way his face seemed to brighten at the voice on the other end.

“Mikey, I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry, everything’s gonna be alright, man, I’m gonna try to get us out of this. Where’s Gerard and Ray?”

“They’re with me.”

“Let me talk to Gerard. You’re gonna be alright.”

“There’s a guy here, some kid. He’s got us tied up. He’s got a gun.”

“What? What guy?”

“Please come get us, Mikes. I know we fought, but I- we need you right now.”

The sound of shuffling and haggard breathing floods through Mikey’s ears as Frank’s voice disappears into the noise.

“Hello? Frank? Are you there?”

His question is met with the muffled sound of shouting and panicked shouts.

“Frank!? FRANKIE!?” Mikey screams down the phone, tears starting to run down his reddened cheeks as he paces around, grabbing at his hair and closing his fist around the roots, pulling in frustration and fear.

“Mikey?” A soft, broken voice calls to him through the mobile, causing his hand to instantly loosen its grip on his sandy brown hair.

“Gee? Is that you?” Mikey sobbed down the phone, finally hearing his brother’s voice was the catalyst for the drops of salted rain that fell down his flushed face to turn into a floodsworth.

“Is- is Pete there?”

The question surprises Mikey. He turns to look at Pete and sees his eyes are already locked on him, with a worried expression on his face.

“How do you know? Gee, what’s going on?”

Gerard bawls down the phone, choking on their words as they try to deliver the message, “Don’t believe Pete’s lies. He knows you. He knew all about you before today.”

“What are you talking abo-”

The line went dead. His brother was gone. Frank was gone. He didn’t even get to talk to Ray. Mikey was desperate; he shouted against the dial tone, calling out for anyone on the other line to talk to him. “Hello? Gee? Gerard?” The dead line continued to hum. “HELLO!?” He wailed to no one. He turned to the camera in the glass cage in the wall and began to scream and bawl at the steady red light.

“FUCK YOU! IF YOU LAY A FUCKING FINGER ON THEM, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU HEAR ME!? YOU SON OF A BITCH, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Mikey falls to his knees, hunched over and sobbing. His breath is unsteady and heavy as he lets the tears fall onto the tile. He slams his fist against the floor, cracking a tile or two in half with the force. Across the room, Pete watches cautiously, his eyes staying on Mikey as he cries like a child for his big brother.

He decides to extend an olive branch to Mikey, speaking quietly and softly, as if he was approaching a dangerous animal, “Are they okay?”

Mikey sits up, avoiding Pete’s watchful gaze, his voice stiff and robotic as he stifles rage.

“My brother, he uh, he mentioned your name.”

Pete acts surprised, the feeling of being caught out dawning on him, “Oh? What did he say?”

Mikey still doesn’t look up at Pete, instead choosing to speak firmly in reply.

“He told me not to believe you.”

“Believe me about what?” Pete can’t bear to look at Mikey as he feels his eyes bore into him.

“He told me that you knew me.” Mikey rises to his feet, shooting the sullen figure across the room, a look which carries the weight of a thousand wrongful deaths. “Who the fuck are you, Pete?”

Pete avoids Mikey’s eyes, attempting to cover up the now apparent holes in his claims.

“You know who I am.”

“Stop fuckin’ lying! You’re a liar! I need to know the truth!”

Pete’s final straw has been drawn. He’s fed up with hiding, and even more fed up with Mikey. He finally meets Mikey’s eyes, his tone sounding less pathetic and more jagged as he accuses Mikey of the same sins. “I’m a liar, am I? What did you do last night, Mikey? Go meet up with a guy you met? Hook up with him? You told me when you left the bus last night, you went to meet a friend.”

“That’s because it’s the truth.” Mikey defends.

Pete cuts back, a deadpan tone that seemed as sharp as a butcher's blade, “No, it’s not. Your brother is right, Michael. Don’t you recall all those blog posts written about you? All the seemingly random pictures of you that surfaced online?”

A million phrases flooded through Mikey's head;

‘Amazing New Mexico Sunset.’

‘I Wish You Were My Bass.’

‘Totally Back In Love.”

‘Fuck.

Pete Wentz.

A few drunken hookups on Warped Tour.

He looks completely different without the eyeliner and his hair pin-straight.

I should've recognised the tattoo earlier, but it all looks the same in the dark.’

Pete stands up, his voice fierce and dagger-like. If he’s a liar, then he learned from the best.

“I can prove you didn’t go anywhere near any guy's house last night. I know you met some seedy guy downtown to get your fix!”

He leans over the bathtub, pulling out a black bag and holding it high. Mikey’s heart feels like it's stopped. He’s been caught. Someone knows of his every wrongdoing, and he does not want to absolve him of his sin. Pete pulls out bundles of paper and photographs from their hiding place, of being wrapped in plastic, holding them up and scattering them across the room.

“It’s not the first time I've done it either, Mikey. I’ve been taking shots of you for months now!”

Mikey looks at the prints, words, blog posts, song lyrics, and pictures. Everything this guy had on him is presented right in front of him. He picks up one of the fallen photographs. It’s of him, last night, standing on the corner of a street in downtown Chicago, placing a wad of cash in the palm of a stranger. He scans the floor. Photos of him holding the hands of one-night stands and sneaking back onto tour buses while the sun rises lay amongst typed snippets of God knows what.

“You’ve had these with you the whole time?”

“I found them, over there.” Pete gestures over to the toilet just off to the side of him, “I don’t know how they got there.”

“Yeah, right. You’re so full of shit!” Mikey roars, balling up the image in his hand and throwing it in Pete’s direction. Pete scoffs, chuckling slightly at the pathetic action.

“Aww, c’mon. Face it, Mikey, we’re both bullshitters! But the camera isn’t. It doesn’t know how to lie. It only shows what’s put right in front of it! Just out of curiosity, what did you do in that alleyway? You got out of there pretty fast.”

Mikey turns and presses his forehead to the wall, huffing and stewing in his anger for a moment, then slowly looks over to Pete.

“Who was it?”

“Who was what?”

“Who told you where I was? Why did you follow me and write all this shit about me?”

“Just this guy.”

“What the fuck does that mean? Does that mean you saw what happened to me?”

“What I saw was you heading towards your tour bus. That’s it. I stopped following when you were nearing the parking space. I don’t know anything beyond that. I don’t know how you got here. I don’t know how I got here. I just tailed you for a bit and went straight home to get the photos on my laptop. Next thing I know, I’m chained to a pipe in some fucking prehistoric bathroom, staring at the guy I’ve been taking shots of!”

“Clearly, whoever told you where I was is the one who put us here.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? What do you mean, maybe? Of course it is! What did he look like?”

Pete shrugs, “I don’t know, he was just a guy.

“Was he tall? Skinny? Obese? What?”

“I didn’t take notes on his appearance!”

“You must remember something about him!” Mikey bellows, aggravated at Pete’s stupidity, or better yet, his continuous lies.

“I can’t!”

“You’re telling me you don’t remember a single thing about the guy?”

“I told you! I-”

“Oh, for fucks sake! I give up!” Mikey throws his hands to the heavens, the dummy act getting under his skin in a way he can’t ignore anymore. He turns away from Pete, leaning his forearm against the wall and pressing his head into the tiles.

“He’s a tall guy with a fuckin goatee, brown hair, kinda ragged look, okay!?”

Pete’s words get Mikey’s head to turn, the rug is quickly pulled from under the confusion as realisation wipes across his features.

“Matt! It’s fucking Matt! Our old drummer!”

“The guy who gave me the info was definitely not a musician; he couldn’t tell me anything about the actual tour.”

“No, no, we kicked him out of the band. He couldn’t keep up with playing live, so we replaced him after the album was done. He broke down after that, but that didn’t stop him from still contacting us; we got countless fucking lawsuits sent our way. He’s convinced himself it was me who got him kicked out; it was a band decision, not just me. I wasn’t even the one that suggested it! He’s crazy… like for real crazy. And you spoke to him. You got information from him to invade my privacy! How could you do that?”

“Call it my need for content.”

Mikey scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Right, right. You know what, Pete? You’re not a victim of this game, you’re a part of it!” He thrusts an outstretched finger in Pete’s direction; if he weren’t on a leash, it would be driven harshly into Pete’s chest.

“Oh, really? Obviously, the cops that questioned you thought YOU were the one behind it all! And this ‘Matt’ thought you were suspicious enough to give me all the clues I needed to follow you. He bought that I was a journalist, either that or he really thinks you’re to blame. What a good friend he is.”

“I told you, he’s not my friend! He’s a bottom feeder! Just like you!” Mikey sneers, turning back to face the corner. His nails dig deep into his palms, leaving reddened crescents in their wake.

Pete’s anger grows to an explosive level. There’s only so much biting your lip can hold back. Mikey’s accusations of involvement in this torture and his attitude towards him ignites an outburst that no amount of backpedalling can retract.

“What are you more pissed off about, Mikey? The fact that I took some pictures of you? Or the fact that I took some pictures of you while you were fucking groupies and getting coke?”

“I WAS NOT BUYING COCAINE!”

“Why do you care what I think anyway? I don’t give a crap if you covered yourself in the shit and had a 15 hooker gang bang!” A blatant lie from Pete. Every motivation for every single action he has made leading up to this has been motivated by just that. What he thinks. What he thinks about who Mikey is fucking. A jealous man by nature, and an envious one by nurture, he cannot help but obsess over everybody Mikey added to his never-ending list of hook-ups. ‘Half of Jersey, All of Warped’, a phrase that haunted Pete like some sort of poltergeist blinks like a warning sign in his mind’s eye. It wasn’t true, well, half of it. He doesn’t know about before him, but he does know that that summer, he was the only one. He does care. So much so that it’s landed him chained up in a disgusting bathroom with front row seats to the unravelling of Michael James Way. His breath is ragged, and his face is darkened with bubbling rage. The pair stand like cowboys before a sunrise showdown as Pete mimics Mikey, turning to face the pipes behind him.

Mikey digests Pete’s words, huffing and processing. Everything comes crashing down as he collapses to the floor, limp like a rag doll. He’s lost any remaining strength and control and starts to weep like a homesick child.

“How did I get here?”

Pete looks over his shoulder, seeing Mikey in the same position as the dead man on the floor, he turns around and sits on the edge of the bathtub, a pained expression wiping away the anger at the sound of a singular voice crack from his cellmate.

“I had…I had everything in order.”

Mikey turns on his side, facing Pete with streams of crystal clear running down his rosy cheeks. Pete watches on, staying silent as Mikey grasps the Polaroid of his band gagged and bound, looking over each face and stuttering between sobs.

“My whole life was in perfect order.”

Pete is at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to comfort in a situation he made happen. He’s not sure anything he could even think to say would soothe Mikey anyway. He looks to the floor as the guilt swallows him whole. It’s his fault. All of it. If he could get over a summer fling like a normal person, he wouldn’t be here. If he didn’t stalk and write and photograph Mikey like a prowling stalker, he wouldn’t be here. Mikey wouldn’t be here. His brother and friends wouldn’t be harmed. Every single string traces back to Pete’s unrelenting desire to be the final notch in Mikey’s belt. Mikey’s gargling cries only add another hundred pounds to his concaving chest. He just wanted to hold his hand again, not have a hand in his torture.

Pete wipes away the liquid glass layer that had formed in his eyes and focuses on the floor. Photos of Mikey from the sidelines of a Warped tour stage caught his eye; he remembers that night vividly. He got to take Mikey back to his empty tour bus for the first time then. He sniffles as he scans the documents that litter the ground, pausing as he recognises something peculiar peaking from the side of a blurry candid of Mikey walking back to the bus last night. He squints at it, trying to focus his eyes on the figure. With a furrowed brow, he gets down on his hands and knees and stretches to reach the image in question. He swipes it from its sandwiched position between a draft of a song and a printed-out LiveJournal post, leaning back and examining the unfamiliar face that lurked behind the tour bus.

“Mikey?”

“What do you want, Pete?” Mikey exhales, preparing for the blow of another wisecrack.

“Was uh- was there someone else on the bus last night? Besides your friend?”

“No? What are you talking about?”

“Well, there’s someone here” He throws the picture over to Mikey, who gets up from the floor and sits down, picking up the paper and scanning for the aforementioned mystery guest.

That fucking kid. The one he gave the picks to.

“I know him!”

“Is he with the band? Crew or something?”

“No… no, he’s that kid that was there when I got questioned…” Mikey trailed off, racking his mind for the name. Zeke? Zayn? Z…?

“ZACK! His name is Zack!”

Mikey turns to face the camera, instinctively guessing that the person watching the surveillance footage is none other than the sick fanboy.

“Zach! You perverted little psychopath! I’m gonna take great pleasure in seeing you pay for this! You little bastard! FUCK!” Mikey’s face burns ruby red, shouting with every particle of oxygen left in his lungs. He pants as he glares daggers down the lens, anger clouding every sense.

“Look.”

Pete’s voice penetrates the resentful haze. He turns his head, only to see Pete not looking at him, but looking up at the wall. The clock hands split the face in perfect halves.

6:00

“We’re out of time.”

The two stare at the ticking hands, the impending doom now settling as certain doom within their knotted stomachs. They don’t speak a word, instead watching as the second hand walks its way around the clock face.

6:01

6:02

The ringing of the burner phone blasts through the thick air, startling both Pete and Mikey.

Mikey reaches into his pocket, quickly flipping the phone open and putting it to his ear.

“Is that you, Zack, you fucking bastard!? I know it’s you, you son of a bitch!”

Pete stands up from his perch on the tub lip, stepping closer to hear the conversation.

“Mikey?”

“Gee?” His eyes widen, the vicious tone being replaced with worry.

“You… you failed.”

“What?”

The sound of struggle pierces Mikey’s ear. Rustling, shouting, metal clanking, and groans travel down the line as Mikey shouts down the mobile.

“Hello!? Hello!? Are you alright!?”

More muffled sounds drift through the device, a hard thud followed by some audibly faraway demands.

“Don’t fucking move! Stay on the ground! Give me that phone. Give it to me! NOW!”

His brother's voice is fierce and commanding, a tone he’d only heard in teenage spats.

“Mikey?”

“Gee! Are you alright!?”

“No. No, we’re not… GET THE FUCK DOWN! Mikey, where are you?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m being kept hostage in a room somewhere.”

Gerard sniffles down the phone, disbelief and frustration evident in his tone.

“What? What are you talking about?”

The waterworks start yet again for Mikey as he croaks out an apology.

“I’m so sorry, Gee. I’m so so sorry.”

“Mikey, we need you here.”

“I’m so sorry for everything. It’s all my fault. Please forgive me. I love you. I love you so much.”

The words sit between the phone lines for a moment, and both the caller and the recipient are crying as the apology is spoken.

Ray’s voice breaks their simultaneous sobs from continuing through the phone.

“GERARD!”

Screaming and thunderous banging rage from the other end of the call, leaving Mikey to panic as his only clues on who’s alive are the chorus of pained yelps and cries that ring into his eardrum.

“GEE!?” He calls out for his brother, desperate and pleading for some sort of answer as the ruckus grows louder.

“WHAT’S HAPPENNING!? FUCK! GERARD!?”

The distinct sound of a gun firing blares as Mikey falls to his knees.

“GEE!? PLEASE!”

He listens as Frank shouts profanity at what he can only assume is Zack. Mikey’s heart rate accelerates like an F1 car on its final lap as he hears the sounds of distressed pleas and the impact of fists colliding with skin. He continues to scream his brother’s name down the phone, receiving no concrete answer. His eyes feel like they could burst from the pressure of flooding spilling from them. His head doesn’t feel much different. He can taste his pulse. All he can do is listen to what could very well be the death of his brother and his two closest friends.

Pete stares at Mikey’s crumpled body lying on the cold floor. Every fibre of him wants to reach out. To hold him. To stroke his hair and take off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. The chain feels heavier as he watches Mikey convulse on broken sobs, unable to move, comfort or help the boy across the room.

“FREEZE!”

An unfamiliar voice stifles Mikey’s blubbering. He lifts his head from its position of being pressed against the bathroom tiles.

‘BANG!’

Gunshots.

A lot of them.

Screeching.

Sobbing.

Gunshot.

Clattering.

Gunshot.

Shouting.

Gunshot.

Screaming.

Gunshot.

A guttural scream erupts from Mikey’s lips as he reacts to the symphony of terrifying sounds. He clutches the phone, silently praying to a God he’s not sure he even believes in for his brother, Ray and Frank’s lives to be spared.

“Mr Way? Iero!? Toro!? I’m gonna kill your brother now, Mr Way!”

Mikey’s blood runs cold. He looks over to Pete, helpless with tear-stained cheeks as the line goes flat. He’s met with a similar view. Pete’s eyes are pinkened and puffy, his lip quivering as he stands as close as his chain will let him go, shaking and vacant. Mikey’s face finds the floor again, lying in a complete mess, not even crying, just heaving and moaning lowly. He’s wept every tear his body could muster. The retching suddenly comes to a halt, swiftly replaced by a loud buzzing. Mikey's body jerks up as the humming starts, volts of raw electricity injects itself into his veins as he collapses backwards, his legs folded inhumanly beneath his seizing body. Foamy spittle starts to bubble at the corners of his mouth as Pete watches, wide-eyed and absolutely terrified.

“Mikey!? Mikey, get up!”

The spasming continues, and more drool and white bubbles spill from Mikey’s mouth as Pete stands frozen in place. The fit stops just as suddenly as it started. Mikey lies still and stiff on the bathroom floor.

“Mikey! Get up! I need you! Please!”

Pete finds himself crying for what seems like the millionth time over the absence of Mikey’s voice. He frantically starts pacing the floor. reaching his hands into his hair and yanking from the root.

Mikey can’t be dead. He can’t be alone in this fucking room. He can't handle this on his own. He needs Mikey. He needs the calm, collected boy on the other side of the room, no matter how he treats him.

In his spiral, Pete’s eyes stayed glued to the ground. He spots a piece of debris from the many things he slammed off the tiles and flings it towards Mikey’s lifeless body. It doesn’t hit him. Not even close. He picks up another piece of the destroyed bathroom, this time a large bolt that he assumes was holding the tubing flush to the wall. He closes one eye and aims for Mikey’s exposed stomach. He hopes for the best as he launches it over the bloody corpse that separated them. The bolt skelps off the floor, ricocheting to hit Mikey’s rib.

“Mikey!? C’mon, man, wake up!”

Pete holds his breath, waiting for some sign of life.

It feels like a lifetime before Mikey begins to stir awake, and Pete lets go of the breath he was holding in his lungs, a smile tugging on his lips. Mikey reaches a quaking hand towards his head, squinting as the lights penetrate his eyes and sitting up slowly. Pete cries out in relief. “Oh, thank God! I thought you were dead!”

“He… he electrocuted me…”

“I told you! The same thing happened to me, see? I wasn’t lying!”

Mikey leans over and grabs the chain, the source of his unneeded defibrillation. He snaps, whipping the chain off the sickly white tiles.

“FUCK THIS SHIT!”

He begins to yank and struggle with his chain, grunting and shouting as he tries to pry the cuff off his ankle. The familiar ring tone interrupts his pointless attempts as he quickly scampers to locate the phone. It lies out of reach, a good foot or so away from his fingertips. He flattens himself onto his stomach and desperately tries to grab the vibrating mobile, but his hands can’t quite reach the grey cell. He searches for something to use, a lasso or something to anchor the phone so it’s in reach, eventually settling on the hinged little brown box. He empties the contents onto the floor, flipping the box upside down as he tries to hook the antenna with the corner of the box. He can’t reach. Nothing will reach it. Nothing can help him find a sliver of salvation in this hellhole. He cries out in frustration again, hot tears blooming in his waterline as he throws the box towards the phone and attempts to stretch his hand out to get even a finger tip on it. Pete stood like a deer in the headlights as he looked on, unsure of what to do.

Mikey’s cries become howls as he thumps the floor with his fist, sending waves of agony through his knuckles.

“FUCK! NO! NO! FUCK!”

“Mikey, calm down. There must be a way out of this!” Pete takes on the role of the levelheaded, logical thinker, completely role-reversing all that has been set in their time within the 4 decaying walls.

“I CAN’T BE FUCKING CALM! My family needs me! Oh God!” He bawls and shrieks, forcing his body to stretch as far as it can to grab the still ringing phone. His ankle burns as the metal cuff bites into his tender skin, cutting into his heel as he extends his arm outwards towards what he sees as their key to rescue.

Pete shouts over Mikey’s guttural, primal screams, trying to ground him in any way possible. “Mikey, I have a family too! I don’t see them, that’s my mistake. It’s a mistake I'd like to fix!”

Mikey continues to lash out, his mental state visibly and audibly breaking down as he clutches the chain and cries out at nothing.

“MIKEY! STOP IT!” Pete yelps desperately, his grasp on calmness dropping from his hands as Mikey begins to take off his belt. Though it is a sight Pete has seen before, he hasn’t witnessed it with such unnerving sobs. The belt smacks off the floor, the decorative buckle slapping harshly against the ceramic.

“Mikey, please! Please calm down! There's a way out of here! There’s a way out!”

Mikey picks up the belt, letting the buckle clink off the floor as he begins to wrap it around his calf, feeding the tail through the metal as he pulls tight. The thin layer of fat bubbles over the cinched leather, making Mikey’s already pale-looking skin look almost strangled. He wraps the length of the leather around another time, tugging it tight and threading it through the metal hoop in the back. It’s only now, as Mikey’s eyes widen in derangement, that Pete realises what he’s preparing to do.

“MIKEY! NO! GOD, PLEASE NO! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”

Mikey takes the tail of the belt between his teeth, pulling his head back as he digs his fangs into the printed leather. Pete’s screams and begs become background static in his ringing ears as he lifts up the hacksaw from the floor beside him. He puts the blade to his ankle, breathing heavily. The look in his eyes is no longer just madness, but desperation. He doesn’t care about walking nearly as much as he cares for his brother and his friends. If they make it out of this, he only needs his hands to play. He needs his brother far more than he needs his foot. Mikey glides the blunted teeth over his skin, screaming against the cow skin that fills his mouth. Prickles of hot crimson begin to slide down onto his foot as he slices through the layers of skin. He adds more pressure as he sees the layers of the cut ruby red part to reveal pinkish meat. The liquid scab spurts up as he carves into the tough muscle, splatting across his features like a vermillion smoothie.

Pete cannot help but vomit at the sight. Hot bile floods from his parted lips just as fast as the bitter salivation coated his tongue upon witnessing the first speck of blood landing on Mikey’s glasses. His pleas seem to fall on deaf ears. His throat is raw and dry as he hacks up the remnants of last night's dinner onto the floor, his jeans and his shirt. He falls to the floor, wincing and begging Mikey to stop, blubbering as he watches Mikey hack away at his own flesh.

The flesh has been split, the off-white of his lower Tibia peaking through the poorly cracked open foot. The syrupy gore covers his neck and chin like a blanket, still spraying like a fire hose up at his face. The white text on his shirt is now crimson as the drippings and sprayings fall down his chest. He can’t even scream anymore. The adrenaline numbs the pain only a little, but his throat feels hoarse from every gagged cry he tried to vocalise. He can only moan in agony behind the layers of hide that his canines hold punctured behind wet lips. The resistance from the hard bones only makes him work faster, in a desperate, rushed and sloppy shaving of his skeleton. The salted tears blend with the plasma, allowing it to thin and rush down his distorted face, trailing down his torso and pooling on his pelvis and thighs. The slop covered him like he had been bathing in it; barely any skin could be seen behind the scarlet soup. His glasses were completely obstructed by the blood storm, sliding off his wet nose and falling into the dampness of his jeans. His vision was shitty at the best of times, but with his own vein’s wine dancing on his eyelashes, he’s seeing blind, trusting the teeth of the saw to carve away at his Fibula without supervision.

The bone splits with a sickening crack as it lies limp on the floor, stringy tendons and stressed, stretched skin keep the hacked-away appendage fused to Mikey like a parasitic twin. He tears the Achilles tendon with a harsh swipe of the blade, leaving gravity to detach the unwanted extremity as the thin film of his ankle expands beyond its elasticity, tearing in a jagged line, and leaving a flap of long hide draping from the back of his calf.

Pete is hunched on all fours, crying and begging for Mikey to stop. He hears the thud of his foot slapping against the tiles and retches up air, dry heaving and coughing. His pleas are met, far later than he wanted them to, as Mikey drops the metal hacksaw from his sweaty palms, a sharp ding ringing through the air. He sits up, and Pete’s arms give out below him; the impact of padded cheeks scudding off the porcelain alerts Mikey to turn his head. Pete lies face down on the cold floor, weeping inconsolably and babbling incoherent nonsense, listening as Mikey groans and begins to move. He lifts his head to see Mikey wiping the lens of his glasses on the dry fabric that lies around the back of his shirt, gripping the fabric tight and pulling it around his toned, slender frame. He places the now white and pink glasses back on his face, not bothering to swipe away any of the blood that clung to his exposed skin. Pete begins to rise from his slumped position, kneeling tall to get a view of the three-limbed man that crawled across the ground.

“Are… are you okay?” Pete asks, already knowing the answer was likely no, seeing as the boy had just removed his own foot. Mikey groans in response, searching arms gliding through the spilled contents of his insides. Pete watches in terror as Mikey finds the object he’s been wading through the carmine river for.

A singular bullet.

“What are you doing!? Mikey!? What the fuck are you doing!?” Pete stutters the question, and Mikey slugs towards their deceased roommate, whimpering and wailing with every drag that his massacred leg takes across the filthy floor. He doesn’t have it in him to reply to his soon-to-be victim. Mikey's hand grips the cadaver’s wrist, using it to hoist himself closer to its rotten remains. The slickness of the blood on his hands makes holding on a difficult task, but he presses his nails into the body and uses what little strength he has to propel himself closer. From the dead man’s hands, he retrieves a small, black handgun.

“Mikey, what are you…” The sentence gets clogged in Pete’s throat as Mikey opens the chamber and slips the single bullet in one of the 6 holes. He closes the bullet chamber, shakily raising the gun up. He’d never shot one of these things before, but he’s seen enough zombie flicks to have a rough idea. He tries to stop the tears as he listens to Pete’s desperate attempts at convincing him there’s another way.

“Oh my god! Oh my God! Mikey, don’t!”

Mikey closes one eye, locking his eyes on Pete as he clambers to his feet.

“No! Mikey please! I’m begging you!”

Mikey steadies his arm, aiming the barrel of the gun right at Pete’s torso.

“Mikey, it’s not me who did this to you! Please!”

Pete does not expect the broken voice of Mikey to leave his greying lips.

“You have to die.”

Pete throws his hands in front of him in defence, moving side to side as if dancing on hot coals.

“No! I want to live! Please, I want to make things right!”

“I’m sorry.” Mikey croaks, his eyes draining of any light and his voice full of reluctance.

“I want to live!”

“My…family…”

His aim is locked on Pete with a sniper's eye, his finger gripping the trigger as Pete screams bloody murder, bawling and screeching at the gunman. He pulls the trigger, sending the silver bullet through Pete’s upper chest.

Pete collapses forward, smashing his tear-ridden face against the cold, hard tiles. Crimson blooms on the floor beneath him, spilling from his torso and his face to meet in a sickly pond of haemoglobin cocktail. Mikey lets the gun fall from his hands, crying his eyes out as he lies down on the floor. He killed him. He killed the only person that understands the torture of his room. He had a family. Friends. A band. Fans. And he took it away with one movement of his finger. Blood, sweat and tears collect on the floor beneath Mikey, a distinct salted metal scent filling the bathroom. He didn’t know if it was the blood loss or the blood on his hands, but he felt unbelievably ill. His stomach contents bubbled and boiled in the pit of his stomach. His head feels like it’s in a hydraulic press as he cranes it up from the floor. He barely manages a breath as he props himself up on his elbows.

The only survivor of the three men in this room.

“I’ve done it! I’ve fucking done it! Now show them to me!” He demands towards the camera- the sick, perverted voyeur that watched all 6 hours he spent trapped in this God-forsaken shit hole. He lets his arms fall limp as he lies back down, pressing his forehead to the floor, sobbing dry tears.

Mikey doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there, face down on the disgusting bathroom floor, but his head is jerked up by a sound from the other side of the metal door. The door slides open as Mikey manages to get himself onto his knees, turning to face the moving metal plane.

Salvation.

A saviour has found him.

He reaches his hand out towards the door, the grating sound of squeaking and banging forces his eyes shut in a wince. Out from the shadows steps a figure, much smaller than himself.

“Frank!? Is that you!?” Mikey's hopeful tone inspires a laugh from the shadow in the doorway. A sick, conniving snicker fills his ears.

The dust and smoke settle, revealing Zack’s bloodied and beaten form. The fanboy steps into the room, his eyes darting around the scene, settling finally on Mikey’s determined expression. He smirks, stepping around the one-legged man and heading to examine the fallen boy across from Mikey.

“You bastard! You fucking bastard! I’ll kill you! Don’t fucking touch him!”

Mikey reaches to grab at Zack’s legs as he passes him, but is too weak to do anything more than hit his fingers off his shins.

“I’ll fucking kill you! You sick little bastard!”

Mikey grasps the gun beside him as he yells, aiming at Zack and pulling the trigger. Nothing but empty clicking comes from the pistol as Zack steps closer to Pete’s body.

“I’ll fucking kill you! Don’t you dare fucking touch him! Don’t fucking touch him! Leave him alone! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Zack ignores the empty threats, kicking his foot into Pete’s ribs a few times. He’s met with no reaction from the dead boy. He huffs and turns to face Mikey, who still aims the empty gun at him.

“You’re too late.”

Zack raises his own weapon, pointing it between the arches of Mikey’s glasses in a standoff where only one of them can stand.

“Why?” Mikey asks weakly, his shooting hand quivering.

“It’s the rules.”

Zack clenches the trigger, a moment of hesitation pausing the death-inducing action. He doesn’t want to shoot Mikey. He looks up to him, admires him even. But staring down the barrel of Mikey’s own gun, what other choice does he have? He goes to speak an apology, but before the first syllable can leave his mouth, he feels a rough hand grip his ankle, pulling him down to the floor. The back of Zack’s head hits the floor harshly, the sound of a skull cracking making Mikey’s face scrunch up. Pete yanks him closer, reaching to swipe the gun from his hand, screaming in utter agony as he feels the bullet burrow itself further into his shoulder. The gun sends a bullet ricocheting off the ceramic-lined walls, shattering them on impact and scattering sharp shards across the room. Pete shakes Zack’s arm in an attempt to loosen his grip on the firearm. A second bullet escapes the chamber, this time narrowly missing Mikey. Rage fills Pete as he hears Mikey scream. He slams Zack’s arm down, sending the gun skidding towards the bathtub. He cracks Zack in the face, shifting his nose to the side as his knuckles collide with the cartilage. Zack is dizzied and stunned as he sways on his knees, then tumbles backwards, holding his nose and shouting muddled profanity. Mikey uses the little strength he has in his arms to crawl forward, screaming like a madman as Pete lifts the lid of the toilet’s water chamber from the floor.

“Pete! Don’t!”

Pete doesn’t listen; he doesn’t even notice Mikey’s slow movements towards him. He lifts the heavy porcelain lid above his head, crying out as he feels the tendons snap around the lodged bullet in his upper chest. He thumps the white slab against Zack’s head, instantly staining the shiny white with red blotches.

“Pete! Stop it! He’s down!”

He picks up the lid and slams it again.

Then again.

“Pete! You’re gonna fucking kill him!”

He bashes the boy’s head again, snapping the toilet lid in half upon the final blow and letting the upper half of the slickened slab collide with the floor.

He raises the chipped cover up again, intending to use the makeshift weapon until he can no longer hold it in his hands. He lowers the lid, but is stopped before another strike can be made to the bludgeoned head below him.

What’s left of Zack’s skull is reminiscent of a smashed watermelon. Fleshy red lies obliterated above a mangled neck and shoulders. The peach rind of his skin falling like a discarded bed sheet around the pool of wound piss. Brain matter and hard, sharpened bones blend together with a disarray of chipped teeth acting as seeds in the fruit smoothie.

“Oh God-”

“Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Mikey's hand rests on Pete’s arm, the soft contact immediately coaxing him to let go of the hunk of bloodied pottery. Pete falls forward, clutching his shoulder with his free hand and bawling like a newborn. His breathing is stuttered and interrupted with sobs on every inhale.

“It’s okay, Pete.”

Mikey moves in, pressing his forehead against Pete’s, swapping blood drops from skin to skin.

“You’re going to be alright, Pete.” Mikey barely manages to whisper the words to him as his bellowing cries slow to a silent, steady stream.

“You’re just wounded in the shoulder.”

Pete nods against Mikey’s forehead, hiccuping on his pain.

“I have to go- go get help.”

Pete’s eyes widened. ‘Go’ as in leave. Leave him here. Alone.

“Don’t leave me here! No! Mikey, please!” He grasps at Mikey's shirt, begging.

Mikey nods, pulling away from Pete and turning to face the door. Streams of silently wept tear drops fall from his eyes as he departs. He bites his lip to stifle the sounds that are fighting their way up his throat.

“NO!” Pete’s howls almost stop Mikey in his tracks. He can’t leave him like this.

“MIKEY! MIKEY! PLEASE! NO!”

He turns to look back at the bawling boy, revealing his own tears to him across the room.

“I NEED YOU! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE! I NEED YOU MIKEY, PLEASE!”

“Don’t - don’t worry, I’ll bring someone back, I promise.” He manages to whisper in his lightheaded state. The pair stare at each other, a million unspoken words balancing on the tips of their tongues.

“Please?”

Mikey just bows his head, turning back to face the exit as he hears Pete’s whimpers slowly fade. He sets off on his journey through the metal door, down a dimly lit concrete hallway. He fights the urge to cast a look at Pete, deciding it’s better to escape and bring him help than to lie with him once more.

Pete and the bodies are all that is left in the room, his eyes following Mikey as he trails himself around a sharp corner, leaving only smears of blood behind him. He reaches a hand out, his throat too dry to attempt another shout to the departed, instead he lies pathetically on the floor, praying that Mikey keeps his promise. He allows himself to cry all he has left, mumbling Mikey’s name and an unspoken ‘I love you' to fill the silence.

He’s got to get out of here.

The murmurs of Mikey’s name are replaced with whispers of thinking out loud.

“Key…key…”

He starts raiding Zack’s pockets, patting him down and pulling out all the contents. There’s nothing of use in his jeans, only a few pieces of lint and a balled up receipt. He hums in frustration, throwing the useless items down on the ground and beginning to pat down the carcass' jacket pockets instead. He feels something hard, rectangular and heavy tucked inside the internal breast pocket. He hoists himself up on top of the corpse, wincing and swearing at the sharp pain in his shoulder. He rips open the coat, popping a few buttons as he flips the fabric over and reaches inside. He knows what it is just from touch alone. He pulls the solid brick out and gazes at it with an open mouth. He glances down at Zack, or what’s left of him, then to the object in his hand. He straightens himself up a bit more, moving to sit on the floor, rather than straddling the body. He presses play on the tape recorder.

‘Hello, Mr Hick. Or as your friends call you: Zack.

I want you to make a choice. There’s a slow-acting poison coursing through your system, which only I have the antidote for. Will you murder the band you’ve stalked and followed for months to save yourself? Listen carefully, if you will. There are rules.’

Pete drops the tape, his eyes glued to the mess of a man beside him. What has he done? It was his trap, too. Fuck.

He looks into the mix of bone, blood and brains, letting himself spiral as he swallows the weight of what he’s done. He almost misses the final surprise in his spiral.

Almost.

From the centre of the room, the third original member of the prisoners in this room begins to rise. Pete’s mouth falls agape as the supposed cadaver rises to his knees, stretching his back and shaking his head. The splattered blood and exposed cerebrum peel off in one swipe from the unharmed bald head. He can’t muster the courage to speak, instead watching in shock as the body stands up and cracks his stiffened neck.

“The key to that chain is in the bathtub.”

Pete’s instinct tells him to reach for the discarded gun that lay near the tub, quickly shuffling to clutch it in his hands. He aims it at the risen faux corpse, pressing his finger against the trigger. As he forces the metal clip back, his body is pumped full of electricity. Pete falls backwards onto the floor, his head smashing into the bathtub as he begins to spasm and seize on the floor. The lightning stops as he gasps for air, drawing in raspy, forced breaths. He sees the dead man walking towards the door, and all he can do is watch as the man flips the light switch and grasps the metal sliding door.

“Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. But not you. Not anymore, Peter.”

The man hauls the door across the opening with a loud grunt, stopping halfway as Pete shouts desperate pleas.

“NO! DON’T PLEASE! I’M GRATEFUL! I’M SO GREATFUL!”

The man says two simple words as he closes the door.

“GAME OVER.”

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