You Can't Leave Me

Rating: T

Summary: Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

BrooklynBabbii

Chapter One:

February 3rd, 20XX

Dear Awesome (Journal),

I met the HAWT-TEST guy at the club, the other day. It was awesome! Like almost as awesome as my American flag Converses, which I wore that night, and which the HAWT stranger commented on – and said he liked the design.

I told him I was looking into going into the Air Force, after the summer was over, and he smiled. He said it was good that I was trying to defend my country. Oh yeah, I found out his name too! It kinda fit hi*

Ivan Bragniski.

Wait, now that I think about it… There was a pretty grisly case about some case in Alaska about some guy with that last name going mad after his lover/some shit left him for another dude. It was rea

Huh. Must be a coincidence, right? Like the last name Jones. There's no way Ivan is some homicidal killer, right? Yeah, he's totally HAWT, and it's always the ugly guys who turn out to be the evil and crazy serial killers, right? I guess that's righ

Alfred F. Jones

P.S. You'll never believe what Mattie said to me the other da

Detective Kirkland looks down grimly at the worn and expertly burnt pages. He was holding the old journal of their missing person of 3 years. Alfred Foster Jones: that was his legal government name. He was a young man of 19 years, born in Washington D.C to a military family. He had no blood siblings.**

He could still remember the day the boy had come in, three years ago on this day, face haggard and how he was forever looking over his shoulder, even though he was dressed warmly in the bad snow storm outside and in the presence of multiple able officers in the police station.

The Detective will never forget Alfred's words, when he had come in:

"You…you can help me, right?" He had asked, when Kirkland had nodded, he had continued, "You're one of the best. You can help me, of course." He could remember all too well how the young man had come right up to him, and taken him by the shoulders, blue eyes full of the worst fear. "You have to help me."

Those last words would haunt him forever…

"I can't stay there anymore, he's going to figure out I left the house and he's going to come and get me," Alfred had said, shaking his head and splattering raindrops. "The safe place isn't safe anymore. I know he knows where I am."

Detective Kirkland felt some guilt as he recalled how he had said Alfred was in one of the best havens he could be offered. He felt more guilt as he recalled calming the man down, as he drove him back, how he had turned down the offer of tea to say a while.

He wished he had stayed. Not even an hour after he had left Alfred alone, a frantic call to the station had been made. When the line opened, all that was heard was screaming and the sounds of crashes. There was one solid bang of a gunshot, and then footsteps as someone walked on the hardwood flooring to pick up the phone.

A cajoling voice saying on the other end, "Thank you for keeping him in one place, officers." A dial tone abruptly ended the call, before anyone could say anything. Kirkland had ordered for the phone call to be tracked immediately as he, himself, tried to call Alfred.

Of course, the boy hadn't answered. He sent some patrols to go out to the house. They never returned. Even now, three years later, no word that they were even still alive. Kirkland had called them all, and the only thing he was received was from the one officer: a Toris Laurinaitis.

He had sounded like he was crying, and there was a slight crinkling. He was in a bad area, as there was little reception. The officer had only the time to say, "I didn't call them, I swear, I didn't!" Before a sound bang was heard, a scream and then the dial tone to say that the phone had been broken.

The officers he had trusted to track the call finally succeeded, sometime by early morning. They hadn't been able to do so fully, as when they got there, they found the only tower chopped down and the phone cords cut carefully. There would be no more communication to this supposed safe haven, for a while, until it was fixed.

An inspection of the house resulted in Kirkland feeling not only guiltier, but just horrified at all of the damage. Couches overturned, shear marks exposing the cushions' fillings. The large and heavy antique wooden table had a bloody handprint on the edge, and it looked to be dragged off.

Later, a blood analysis found it to be both Alfred's blood and fingerprints. No gun powder was found it, and no evidence of the blood having been induced by any sort of knife. There was no more evidence on the table.

Deeper inspection led to seeing one mutilated body, the body of Officer Jett, an Australian recruit, new to the force, in the kitchen. When they found him, he was barely alive, and in fatal condition. He was immediately taken to the hospital, to recover, and to question on the happenings when he woke up.

He never woke up. Somehow, during his stay, without being seen, someone had put s shot of air in his IV. They never found the culprit.

In the living room was even more devastated furniture. There was also more blood. More analysis found it to be some of the officers Kirkland had called to go into the house, the officers he hadn't heard from in years, and more of Alfred's blood.

They had gone up the stairs and found a semi-deep engraving on the floor leading the bedroom. The door was broken. The doorknob embedded in the very wall on the opposite side. The window was broken, some of a shirt having caught on it. (Analysis showed it to have been on Alfred at the time. No further prints.)

There was more blood, and then a mixture of blood and sperm on the bed sheets. Which Kirkland had found it disgusting to say the least. But when he sent off the pink mixture to be tested, he was shocked to find that it was only Alfred's. But a faint detection of rubber was found, and the detectives had to conclude that their suspect had worn a condom. It angered Kirkland to know they still had nothing.

Well, that is, until someone looked under the bed. They found a piece of light string of Alfred's shirt there, with a slight clue there. A single clue: a small piece of hair. A white-blonde hair, it was seemingly nothing and yet everything that they had been looking for.

They finally had something…until they tried to search it. Just as Kirkland was awaited the results, the forensics lab caught fire and everything was burned down to the ground. All of the evidence tested, waiting to be tested, everything was gone.

They had nothing, and were back to square one.

This is why I'm not allowed to watch CSI in my house. I write shit like this. v.v

Anywho~ This might not be updated for awhile, considering how many ficts I have out right now. ^^'

Buuuuuuut yeah, you're welcome to follow/favorite/review. I can promise you, this story will put you through Hell and back. :D

Have fun with it!

READ AND REVIEW!

*ha: These are a sign of the words being cut off by burned pages, the word is incomplete.

** No Blood Siblings: You will understand this, later on.