Prologue
He'd read somewhere, he couldn't remember where, that suicide- by-knife victims usually had small cuts around the large incision, where hesitation had caused them to think twice about what they were doing.
It wouldn't be an issue for him. He had cut himself many times before, usually to provide blood for some ritual, and had never had any trouble slicing himself then, so it wouldn't be a problem now.
The one thing that was giving him pause, however, was the bound man on the floor. Fear lit the man's eyes, and that triggered some sort of feeling. He just couldn't remember. Nor did he care.
He knew he was tired. Sick of the fight that had already taken too much from him. He had to do this, despite the other man's protests.
Checking the syringe in his hand, he knelt beside the other man, preparing to deliver the fatal dose of morphine. There had been plenty in the first aid kit in the big black car, and he was sure it would do the trick.
"Dean. Dean please don't do this." The man on the floor was begging him. He had tears in his huge hazel eyes. The other man felt…nothing.
Well, almost nothing. The twinge he had felt earlier was there again, but still not enough to stop him. He needed to do this. He would make it quick. Drug the man on the floor, and quickly drag the knife across his own wrists. It would be quick. Almost painless.
But why? Why was he doing this? He wished for a clue, something other than the driving need to end his and the other man's lives. He knew their lives were inexplicably intertwined, knew that everything in his past, everything he did, hell, everything he was, had something to do with the man on the floor.
He couldn't remember the man's name, he couldn't remember his own name, but he knew they were both destined to die, and to die together.
He just didn't know why.