Mr X.

[[It was indeed abrupt, but it pleased me with its abruptness personally. I guess I’m a fan of the disjointed. Mr X is never really ‘justified’, I don’t think. He’s still a manic bastard. I guess I just like to be sympathetic with the monsters. My update rate is so good because of the reviews -: Gush :-. Seriously, people. Reviews really are the writers’ food, and the more, the better. And yes, his birth name is Carlos. Never trust the cat. And this chapter’s Radiohead inspired x).]]

Darren did not sleep. He remained observing the blood dappled ceiling above, the scent of the undercooked pizza, sex, and the prevailing odour of death penetrated his senses. The warm, naked flesh pressed to his was no comfort in its dry, smooth quality. Sixteen. He wondered what on Earth could have happened to Mr X to mould him into such a monstrosity. The low hum of constant traffic outside helped him settle, he heard sounds all around, and for a moment he wondered why Mr X’s neighbours never heard the screaming. He supposed perhaps they where deaf to it now, city folk where not herds. It was all about self-preservation.

‘Sl Dar Darren.’ The voice was clear. It was commanding.

‘I can’t.’ Darren’s voice was meek, tired and almost apologetic. Mr X nodded against him.

‘Try.’ Mr X fell silent after the last word, and Darren did not respond. After a time of silent, Darren supposed he was asleep. Slowly, he lifted his head, and was shocked to find Mr X’s eyes wide open and staring straight ahead at a wall. His breath was steady, and now and again it seemed his eyes rolled in their sockets. Mr X slept with his eyes open. Darren fell back against the pillow. The urge to cry felt overwhelming, but he suppressed the tears. They would help nothing. However, as he closed his eyes, liquid seemed to seep free on it’s own accord, salty and burning hot as it travelled down his cheeks. His teeth bit down on the flesh of his lower lip harshly, his fingers gripped onto the sheets, his lack of movement terrified him. He could do nothing now, he supposed, with Mr X in his wide eyed slumber, not that the situation would be better with his manic captor awake. His mind told him he would not sleep, and he took the stance of awaiting morning. However, eventually slumber overtook him.


He woke up to the sound of a radio, and sunlight streaming through the boards. His arms and legs where untied, and pinned to the wall was a bit of paper. He picked it up, and gazed at it. The untidy scrawl across it was barely intelligible, with backwards letters, words spelt completely wrong. The handwriting of Mr X, like a small child’s, disco-ordinate and short. It simply read that he had gone to work, that he would be back later, and at the bottom, a heart had been drawn. Darren did not know whether to feel charmed, sick or confused. All the feelings welled in the pit of his stomach, along with fear and badly prepared food, and all of a sudden he found himself stumbling for the bathroom, throat filled with the burning sensation that was only stomach acid not where it was supposed to be.

His stomach emptied, he knelt over the basin, coughing hard. His eyes watered again, and furiously, he roughly brushed the tears away. Mr X’s bathroom was also meticulously kept, clean and perfect. Darren spat once more, and then watched as what was yesterday’s dinner swirled down and was replaced with clean water. He turned away quickly, wandering through to the kitchen and drinking a glass of water. His eyes met the clock and he was mildly dismayed to see it was already 12:30. Idly, he wandered over to the door. He pressed his fingertips to the wood. If he could break through, he could run. He began to back away slowly, and shoulder first, he ran.

The effect was simply that the wood deflected him. He stumbled backwards, fell, and gazed hatefully at the barrier.

He began to search frantically, suddenly convinced he could find an escape route somewhere in this prison, rifling through drawers, crawling beneath the bed, though he screamed and began to struggle furiously, wriggling his way out as his groping hands met with cold, slimy, fleshy matter. His fingers where red when he’d finally bucked and writhed his way free, and his better judgement told him not to attempt lifting the bed in order to see what was beneath it. He supposed that in this case, ignorance was bliss. In a fit of anger, he seized upon the radio that seemed to play incessantly and flung it. It shattered against the wall and silenced, and in a moment of odd mania, Darren found his nails raking along the skin of his own arms, gouging as deep as possibl he he attempted to vent the helplessness and anger which seemed to possess his being. No blood broke free, but angry red lines threatening to bleed did colour his skin when he finally settled. He looked about himself slowly, at the disarray he’d caused, the items flung here and there, and fear churned in the pit of his gut. What would Mr X do on his return?

Darren stumbled back to the bed, which had seemed to become his home. He collapsed upon it, and curled in upon himself, facing the wall, and waited.