Tom Hanniger was sitting in his usual spot in the bar - the corner booth, that was the farthest away from the drunks, and the rest of the crowd. He didn't want to be a part of it, and the rest of the town didn't seem to mind him being off in the corner, by himself. In fact, he knew they preferred it that way, because ever since the killings in the mines ten years before, everyone had blamed him. Why? Mostly because his family had owned the mines, and the fact that he was no where to be found after the murders.
The rumor was quickly extinguished, after the real killer had been shot to death, but whenever Tom rolled into Harmony, everyone looked at him different, muttering things to others as he drove by. He could understand his family being blamed for the incidents, but Tom being singled out because he'd just witnessed a life-altering event? It was complete bullshit.
He mulled it over the bottle of Jack the bartender had set on his table - Tom knew it was only because the old man didn't want to keep coming back to his table, that he didn't want to look at Tom anymore than he had to. And yeah, he shouldn't be drinking after his stint in the crazy house, but he thought what the hell; He wasn't being checked on every ten minutes, and being forced to take his medicine anymore, so he thought it was alright.
But the fact was, he was still popping the pills the doctors had given him, just to suppress the memories, and to keep his mind from going back to the time he wished, more than anything, he could just forget. But whenever Tom didn't feel like taking those god awful pills, he would come here, to the local bar, and drink until he couldn't remember his own name.
And that was what he was doing when Clay Miller walked in, his tall frame shadowing above a vast majority of the men there. Tom gave him a few glances, before picking up the bottle of whiskey and, sloppily, pouring himself another glass. The bottle felt light in Tom's hand, and he slammed it back onto the table; the noise making the entire bar turn silent.
Annoyed, Tom looked up and glared at a few people sitting at the bar, making them turn their attention back to the drinks they were sipping seconds before. "That's what I thought," Tom slurred, and analyzed his own words, thinking that he had drank one too many glasses of booze, and that maybe he should stop.
He was in the middle of debating on staying and finishing off the bottle, or just giving up and going home, when he felt a presence next to the table.
"Ben, I swear to God, if you harass me one more time about selling the fuck-" Tom looked up, seeing the confused face of the young man standing before him. He felt bad about assuming it was Ben, and shook his head, smiling at the man softly.
"Sorry, didn't mean ta say that.. thought you were someone else." Tom's words were slurred, more so than before, and he decided to give up on drinking. The man he was speaking to just chuckled softly, and Tom watched as his large hands unfolded a piece of paper.
"My name is Clay," his voice was soft, yet gruff, and Tom could sense he was hurting, "My sister came up here a few weeks ago, and she hasn't come back." Clay's voice faltered as he spoke, and his eyes cast down at the picture of his sister, and the words that fell under it - stating Whitney's name, date of birth, appearance, and when she was last seen.
"Lemme see the paper." Tom held his hand out to Clay, and watched as he reluctantly handed it over. Turning the page around, Tom's eyes glanced over the page, going from the picture to the paragraph, but spending more time on the picture.
"Please don't do this," Tom heard a voice mutter in his head, and shut his eyes, trying to fight off the headache that was coming with the hallucinations. He dropped the paper onto the table and his hands flew to either side of his forehead, fingertips digging against his temples.
"Hey man, are you alright?" Clay's voice was a jumbled mess, and Tom's head was spinning - he recognized the hair, the eyes, and he'd heard the name, but he couldn't remember how, or why. Maybe he had seen her once before, in passing, or maybe she just looked like someone he knew? Either way, Tom decided, he wasn't about to tell Clay the truth.
"Okay," Tom muttered, and blinked his eyes open, looking up at Clay's hurt, and slightly concerned expression. "Sorry never seen 'er before, brother." Tom concentrated on keeping his voice smooth, calm, as he watched Clay nod.
"Alright, thanks." Clay said, his voice slightly dejected as he turned to leave. Tom felt horrible, and he staggered to his feet, a shaky hand resting on Clay Miller's bicep. "Come on, sit down," Tom urged, a smile plaguing his voice as he watched the young man turn around, without repaying the smile.
"No thanks... I'm sorry, I didn't get your name." Clay muttered the last part, feeling his cheeks flush slightly, before he dropped his eyes away from Tom's.
Tom chuckled and slid his hand down Clay's arm, before pulling it away. "Name's Tom," he sat down and motioned for Clay to sit in the seat in front of him, "Tom Hanniger." Tom watched as Clay's eyes lit up, and his hand lifted into the air, making a loose "L" with his pointer finger and thumb.
"Like, Hanniger Mines?" Clay's question threw Tom off, and he chuckled, harder than really necessary, and nodded, wrapping his hand around the glass in front of him. "Exactly like Hanniger Mines," Tom mumbled, bringing the glass to his lips and draining the liquid quickly. He sighed contently, as he pulled the glass away from his mouth, and slammed it onto the table.
"Do ya drink?" Tom cocked his head to the side, eyes set on Clay's, his fingers touching the side of the bottle of booze. Clay shook his head, but took the seat in front of Tom anyway, folding his hands on top of the table. "No, I don't," Clay added, incase Tom took his head shake in the wrong way, or didn't see it.
Tom just nodded and laughed, his fingers falling onto the table with a slight thump. "Me either- well, I shouldn't be." There was his laughter again, filling the small space between the two of them, somehow louder than the voices around them, and the faint music playing across the floor. The alcohol had warmed him, at least figuratively speaking, and he felt much better about all the bullshit and drama surrounding him.
"Where ya from, Clay?" Tom drummed his fingertips against the hard wood, listening to the faint noise, while he kept his eyes on the young man in front of him. He watched the way Clay shifted nervously, and the way Clay's throat looked when he swallowed hard. He could tell Clay was debating, within himself, whether or not to tell Tom-a complete stranger- where he was from.
"Don't worry, I won't follow you and kill you." Tom said, light-heartedly, but visions of the whole process, of killing, flashed through his head. He immediately shut his eyes and took a deep breath, his fingertips stopping in the air, shaking slightly. Tom could feel Clay's eyes on him, and he chuckled softly, swallowed hard, and opened his eyes again, smiling at Clay.
"Chicago," Clay finally answered, in a soft voice, and shifted, uneasily, in his seat. He didn't know what to say around Tom, not because he was a stranger, but because Clay had too much on his mind. So, he tried to keep up small talk - asking Clay about his family business, if he had lived in Harmony all his life, things like that to keep Tom talking, and his mind off Whitney.
Tom answered all of Clay's questions, easily and quickly, and soon Clay was enjoying himself - even ordering a few beers. He watched Tom knock back shot after shot of the hard stuff, the stuff that Clay would never dream of touching, not paying attention to the crowd slowly thinning out.
Finally, though, Tom looked at his watched and cursed under his breath, his hands flying to his jeans pockets in search for his keys. Clay caught every movement of Tom's and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Then he checked his own watch, saw that it was almost midnight, and mentally kicked himself in the ass for being out so late.
"I should be going." Tom grunted in frustration, as he fought to get the keys to his Scout out of his pocket. Clay watched the whole show and bit his lip, to keep from laughing, and possibly angering Tom. He did, however, clap when Tom finally retrieved the keys from his pocket, causing Tom to nod humbly.
Staggering to his feet, Tom shot a hand out, gripping the table for support as he finally felt the effect from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed. He shut his eyes and stood for a moment, both hands gripped around the edge of the table, fully aware of everyone, including Clay's, eyes on him. Just chill out, Tom, he thought to himself, practicing the breathing exercise he had been taught while in the hospital.
"You need me to drive you home?" Clay's voice somehow brought him back to reality, and he remember where he was - in a still-somewhat-crowded bar, in public. Not in the woods, or in the mines, where there was no one else to be seen, or heard, for miles. His head was still reeling, with thoughts of things he could barely remember, and people who's faces he didn't have names for.
He nodded, it was a tiny, very simple move, but it was all Clay needed as confirmation as he stood and grabbed the keys from Tom's hand. Two seconds later, Clay had his arms wrapped around Tom's waist for support, as Tom's arm was thrown around his own shoulders. They walked out of the bar, Tom more-or-less stumbling, while Clay dragged him to the parking lot.
"Which one is yours?" Clay looked around at the few cars that set in the parking lot, and watched Tom's finger, as it fell on a green/grayish looking truck. "That's my Scout," Tom slurred out, feeling more drunk at that moment than he had in the entire night.
Clay nodded and dragged Tom to the car, leaning him against the side as he wrestled with the passenger side door, muttering obscenities as he fumbled with the handle. After a few minutes, he finally got the door open, and Tom in the seat, buckled up and safe, even after his protesting against the seatbelt.
Then he was in the driver's seat, turning the car on, and hearing it roar to life, a sound he hadn't heard in a while, other than from his motorcycle. Clay savored the sound of an engine, and put the car in reverse, backing it out and heading onto the road. It was quiet in the car, the sound of the car's engine the only sound filling the cab, and Clay shivered at how eerie it was.
"Where's your house?" He finally asked, after minutes of being on the road, and shot a glance at Tom, who was sprawled out against the seat. Tom gave him a small smile and threw his hands in the air, shrugging along with the gesture.
"I just got back in town to sign away the mine, so I'm staying at a hotel." Tom's voice was getting better, the words coming out of his mouth sounding like actual words, instead of gibberish. That still didn't help Clay, because there were a number of hotels in Harmony.
"Which one?" Clay's voice was low, and he doubted, for a second, whether or not Tom heard him. He got an answer to his doubts, when he heard a grunt and a mumbled, "I don't know," come from Tom's mouth.
"Whatever one you're staying at, pretty boy." Tom's voice was lower than usual, sleepy this time, and not so drunk, as he watched Clay drive. The compliment, as creepy as it was, made Clay blush, and he cleared his throat.
"Alright, we'll be there in a few minutes." Clay looked at Tom again, just in time to see him nod, and rest his head back against the seat. In a matter of moments, Tom was out like a light, dreaming about being in the mines, like always. Except this time, it felt as if his dreams had really happened, and he couldn't remember them when he was awake.
Tom dreamed of chasing after anyone who had ventured into the mines-his mines-with a pick-axe, in his overalls and gas-mask. He dreamed of slitting a woman's chest open, after shoving the pick into her throat, and removing her heart, putting it in one of those heart-shaped candy boxes.
The dreams were so real, eerily vivid, and it was almost as if Tom could feel his victim's body quiver underneath the axe as the life was drained from their bodies; almost as if he could hear the piercing screams, feel the rocky ground under his feet as he chased after his kill.
She was running in front of him, brown hair splayed across her shoulders and back, her head turned to look at him, making eye-contact. Tom felt the rush of chasing after someone, felt the adrenaline pump through his veins as he gained on them, axe ready and waiting. He cornered her in the woods beside the mines, and heard himself breathe, slow and shallow, as he crept up on her. She was trembling, he could tell from where he was standing, and he smiled, but she wouldn't see that - she wouldn't see his face, his eyes, or the grin he was wearing while he sliced her open. With one swift flick of his arm, Tom sent the pick into her chest, feeling it hit bone and straining to hear the slight crack as they broke. He smiled more-
Tom woke to Clay shaking his shoulder, and Clay's voice telling him to wake up. His mind was foggy, and he had forgotten all about the dream he had just had, let alone the fact that he was in the car with someone he had just met.
"Are we here?" Tom's voice was heavy with sleep, and he saw Clay nod at him, smiling softly. He felt something deep inside of him-something he didn't quite understand- and smiled back, sleepily, as his hand groped for the door handle.
Clay got out of the car, groaning as he felt his muscles ache slightly, and walked to the other side of the car - to Tom's side. He opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle Tom, and held it open for him. Tom got out carefully, his hands holding onto the door panel and the frame for support, but finally standing on his own.
"Alright, lets get you a room." Clay said as he placed his hand on Tom's bicep for a split second, before pulling away, feeling a sudden shock touch his skin. He couldn't explain the feeling - it was a small surge of some kind of energy, and Clay didn't know if it was chemistry, or fear, that drove him to pull away.
Tom's hazy eyes looked up at Clay's clear, green eyes, and for a moment he felt calm, really calm, like he didn't need to booze or the pills to keep him that way. But, Clay broke eye contact, and Tom went back to feeling like he was missing chunks of his life - feeling as if he had done things he couldn't remember or even explain, and feeling empty. Clay walked ahead of him, to the office of the hotel, and Tom followed, feeling sluggish, and feeling his head spin. He'd never felt this way, until he'd drank an entire three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey in one sitting, and he didn't like the feeling.
Blood on his gloves.. Tom stopped short and looked down at his bare hands, turning them over as if he'd somehow find them drenched in blood. No such luck, they were clean, well, mostly clean. He took an extra second to just look at his hands, and wonder how many things he had done with them - most he could remember, but it was from the past. Like working the mines, and unbuttoning Sarah Palmer's-though, she wasn't a 'Palmer' back in those days- shirt night after night, until the killings happened.
Tom finally realized he was standing in the middle of the parking lot, and looked up, his eyes searching for Clay. He took a step, listening to the hollow sound of his own footsteps as he approached the office. His hand wrapped around the doorknob-wrapped around the axe handle-and twisted it, pulling the door open. The air was warm inside the small building, and Tom only saw two people dwelling inside - Clay and an old lady sitting at a desk. He assumed she was the clerk, or receptionist - whatever they were called now-a-days.
Clay turned to look at him as he stood at the desk, he had just told the woman-Lydia, was her name- that his friend needed a room, and that he'd be in shortly. She had asked what he was doing outside, making assumptions that Clay really didn't want to hear; like if Tom was standing out there, peeping in windows and jerking off. The thought, and conversation, made Clay feel uneasy and he shook his head, ceasing all talk. That's when Tom came in, quiet, and slow; gauging each step as he took it.
"I need a room," Tom muttered as he made his way to the desk, hands sliding down the edge of it. The old lady, Lydia, looked at him, cocked an eyebrow and turned to four keys hanging on the wall behind her. "Why don't you just share a room with him? Looks like you want to." The woman's voice was low, barely above a whisper, but Tom's senses were heightened now, and he heard every word.
His hands gripped around the plastic covering the wood, and he tightly shut his eyes, controlling his anger. When he heard the chair squeak, as it turned back around, he opened his eyes and smiled at the old woman.
"How many nights?" The question hung in the air as Tom thought about how many days he really would be sleeping there, until the deal was done with the mines. He shrugged, smiled softly at the woman again, and placed his hands on the desk-top.
"Probably three or four, so I'll pay you when I leave." Tom reached across the desk, grabbed the keys and swiveled around on his heel, making his way for the door. He listened to Clay and Lydia's breathing, chuckling softly within himself as he opened the door, looking down at the keychain. There was a gold '4' stamped on cheap leather, that Tom guessed was fake anyway, and he made his way down to the rooms, seeking out number four.
He stumbled upon his room and pushed the key into the lock, twisting it back and forth in a hasty motion, hearing heavy foot steps walking toward him. Tom shut his eyes, twisted the knob, and pushed the door open, instantly hit by the warm arm wafting from the room. Looking around, Tom concluded that he had been given honeymoon suite. Great, he thought, rolling his eyes and tossing his keys onto the bedside table, before sinking onto the bed.
The door was left open, and Tom looked up, running his palm over his stubble-laced jaw, just in time to see Clay standing in the doorway. It was pitch black outside, save for the various lights from the hotel's sign, and other guests' rooms, but Tom could see Clay perfectly; could make out his facial features quickly, and smoothly.
"Wanna come in?" Tom asked, as he rolled his head back and forth, listening to his neck pop slightly. He let out a groan and closed his eyes, keeping them shut as he heard the door squeak, and felt Clay's footsteps grow closer.
"What's your story?" Clay's voice was quiet, almost as if he were afraid he would wake someone, or alarm Tom. The question did in fact startle Tom and one eye popped open, fixating on Clay, his face twisted in a confused expression.
"What do you mean 'what's my story'?" Tom asked, now with both eyes open, and his hands resting on either of his knees. The question didn't necessary anger Tom, it just surprised him - and he didn't know exactly how to answer it.
"You know, your story," Clay said, pulling a chair to the side of the bed and sitting down. "I mean, why'd you get out of here if your parents owned a money-maker?" He chuckled, nervously, and shifted in the seat, feeling Tom's eyes burning on his own.
Tom felt his shoulders hitch, and then fall, splaying his hands helplessly, as if he didn't know the answer. Truth was, Tom didn't want Clay to think he was nuts, even though nine out of ten doctors at the mental hospital a few towns over would agree that, yes - he was indeed crazy. But did Clay really have to know that about him? If Tom told the young man, which he wouldn't, he knew that Clay would have questions, to which Tom had little, or no, answers for.
"I moved over a couple of states, worked on a farm.. I got tired of the mining life, man." Tom's voice was calmer than he expected, and his eyes softened while holding Clay's gaze. "What about you? I mean, your sister must mean a lot to you.." Tom was assuming things, of course, because Clay wasn't exactly chatty about his sister-Whitney, Tom remembered with a twinge of guilt.
"Oh, not really.." Clay shrugged and sunk down against the chair, crossing his arms over his chest, watching Tom carefully. Tom's eyebrow raised slightly, and he let out one, small chuckle, as if urging Clay to go on. "See, our mother was diagnosed with Cancer," the word felt funny coming from his mouth, "And Whitney was taking care of her, when I left."
"Why did you leave?" The question was out of Tom's mouth before he knew it, and he immediately regretted asking it. "I mean, you.. God, you don't have to tell me, man." Tom patted Clay's knee softly, letting his hand linger a bit longer than he should have, before pulling it away.
"No, it's okay," Clay sighed and looked up at the ceiling, watching his own expression in the mirror that hung just over the bed. Isn't that classy? Clay thought to himself, chuckling softly and pulling his gaze back to Tom.
"I left because taking care of my mother was too overwhelming." Clay remembered the last day he saw his mother and shuddered away from it, banishing the thought from his mind as he continued, "So, I left her with Whitney, and went to do my own thing. That is, until Whitney went missing." He shook his head, lifting a large hand to his hair, brushing his fingers through the dark brown mess.
"And what do you think happened?" Tom's question was soft, his voice almost sounding apologetic as he watched Clay's every move.
"I think that miner, what's his name?" Clay lifted his free hand in the air and then shrugged, "Anyway, he kills people with an axe, and tears their heart out.. I think she came across him and he.." Clay swallowed hard, feeling both morbid for discussing the possibility of his sister's death, and empty as he spoke.
But all Tom could think about as Clay talked was the feeling of the pick-axe in hand, the rush of walking the mines, and the noise his mask made every time he breathed. He thought about the feel of the axe as he shoved into-
"No," Tom said out loud, shaking his head roughly, trying to dislodge the thoughts in his mind. He could feel Clay's eyes on him, and knew the young man thought was crazy - hell, he'd be right. Tom felt around in his pockets, fishing out a small, cylindrical tube, and listened to the sound of the pills as they rolled around.
"I'm going to.. take these," Tom said, shaking the bottle in the air, before he was on his feet, making his way to the bathroom. He pushed the door open and stumbled into the small space, shutting the door behind him. The pill bottle dropped into the sink, and Tom's hands were clenched around the edge of the counter, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror - the same plain, tired look on his face as always, and then his vision snapped, and he wasn't staring at his own face, but the gas mask he'd worn, countless times, in the mines.
Then he saw the pick-axe, felt it in his hand, loose and hefty, swinging by his side as he walked through the rocks and gravel that led to the mines. He could heard the crunch of the rubble underneath his boots, and could hear his own breathing, altered by the mask on his face. Tom could hear the panicked screams of the woman running in front of her, and he swore, for a second, he could feel her fear, and that fueled his adrenaline.
He felt his body lunge faster, towards the brunette woman and the screaming, her high-pitched noises only making him run faster. As he made his way down the narrow space, Tom smashed his axe against the light bulbs that ran along the walls, casting shadows upon his next victim.
Her screams filled the empty underground cave, and Tom felt himself grinning as she slammed into the rocky wall, turning around, frantically, until her eyes fell upon him. Lifting his axe, Tom saw the panic flash in the woman's eyes - he saw her shaking, trembling, even before he had his weapon in the air. That was good; he wanted her to be scared, and he wanted to hear her beg for her life, which is what she was now doing.
He felt his head toll side to side, in slow motion, as he shoved the pick deep into the girl's chest cavity. Her eyes fluttered shut, then open, and then shut again as she gasped, her final breaths entering and exiting her lungs, and Tom shoved the axe in deeper. She moaned, and it wasn't the kind of moan Tom would usually find attractive, but now it was strangely beautiful, and he loved hearing that sound.
He shoved the lifeless body off his axe, and let it fall to the ground, no longer a human being, but his own personal autopsy doll. Tom knelt beside the woman, the tip of his axe just barely caressing her chest, before digging in, making a large gash. Once the hole was cut open, Tom dug his hands in began patiently, expertly, prying the heart from the chest cavity.
Then Tom held it in his hands, looking at it from every angle, before standing up and turning away from the body lying on the ground. He gripped the heart tight in his hand and began walking down the length of the mine, slow and steady, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat die down, returning to it's normal pace.