19: Steve

It was easier this time than before. Less of a struggle. Two swift kicks and the door flew open. Steve stepped inside quickly, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, pushed the door closed.

He didn't need Pete.

The hallway was dark and empty. He slipped into the front room, looked around. TV, video: too heavy, too cheap. Not worth the effort.

Steve didn't know who he was anymore. Sometimes he felt like a puppet, tugged by invisible strings to do things he could never even have imagined before. Sometimes he felt he was possessed by the devil.

Or by Pete.

That boy was fucking crazy. Jesus. Steve couldn't believe some of the shit he pulled, and they all just went along. Like it was perfectly natural. Perhaps it was. He could no longer tell.

They all just went along. Steve just went along, but it wasn't enough, it was never enough. He never got any credit. He did his best, put his back into it, went at it with a vengeance, but Pete still treated him like some kind of loser.

"I'll show him."

Up the stairs: two rooms. Bedroom at the front. So neat and tidy, at first Steve thought it must be for guests. It didn't even looked lived in. Wind up alarm clock, stopped. No posters on the walls. Chest of drawers with primly-folded underwear, balled socks. A rail of pressed shirts. A set of dumbbells in the corner. No jewellery, watches, laptops. No cash.

The other room was worse. Floorboards and net curtains. A bookcase with no books.

For fuck's sake.

The bathroom was small and clean. Razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. All lined up square. Anti-bacterial hand soap. Towel on the rail.

Perhaps Pete was right after all. Steve was a loser.

He trudged back downstairs. There was a little yard out the back, just a square of dirt. No weeds.

The place was a complete bust.

Then he noticed the cellar door. What the fuck, might as well. Maybe this guy kept his treasures down there.

Steve flicked on the light and started down. There was a nasty smell, and some sounds he couldn't identify. Before he reached the last step, he saw the boy.

The boy's eyes widened. He started thrashing his battered head around. Tiny muffled screams tried to escape the gag.

Steve thought he was going to throw up. He had to struggle not to scream himself. He wanted to run the fuck away, right now, wanted never to have seen this nightmare. He could do it. He could just run.

Leave the boy. Leave the workbench and the tools, the knives and saws and drills. He didn't belong here, wasn't a part of this story. He didn't want to be a part of it, wanted to read about it in the tabloids and laugh at how sick it was. What the fuck was he doing here, anyway?

The boy couldn't speak, but Steve knew he was begging and pleading, could see it in his eyes. Christ, he knew what begging and pleading looked like, he'd made people do it often enough. He stepped back, ready to flee.

But those eyes, in that ravaged face. He couldn't have been more than fourteen. Screaming and screaming.

"Shit."

He had to try.

He was just cutting the rope when he heard someone coming to the front door.
Posted by matt at November 23, 2004 01:10 AM