"Travis give me the gun." He didn't look at Jones. Couldn't. She would find a way to calm Travis down, to stop him from doing the right thing.
Is this the right thing?
Of course it is. None of that "don't lower yourself to his standard" bullshit.
All of his life, Derrick had gotten away with things. He just needed to flash his winning smile and he was halfway in the clear. The other half was child's play. Derrick, the carefree rich kid who could convince you he was Jesus reincarnated. Derrick, with his endless excuses and quick saves.
Derrick the rapist. Derrick the murderer.
Travis wouldn't let him get away with it this time. No more lies, no more second chances.
Derrick needed to pay for his mistakes.
"He killed her, you know he killed her!" Why was it so hard for Jones to understand? She knew Derrick killed Naomi. Jones, of all people, should know what needs to come next. Travis just needed to open her eyes. To help her see the monster that was at the other end of the gun.
"Travis, I know. If you shoot him they're going to arrest you." Travis almost laughed.
Killing Derrick would be the most important thing he would ever accomplish. Travis was nobody and he would always be nobody. Travis the nice guy, who shakes girls' hands and can't even introduce himself without scaring them off. Travis the sob story, who can't even get laid with his stories about a rockstar dad. Travis the freak, who stayed up all night plastering the walls with creepy shit. He couldn't even pay his fucking rent. Why would it matter what happens to him, as long as Derrick finally gets punished for everything he did?
Travis watched Derrick squirm under the gun barrel. He almost didn't want this moment to end. There was a sick satisfaction in watching Derrick plead his innocence. Travis made a quick mental sketch of his friend's face, the placement of his features. There was no rawer form of desperation, no truer last ditch attempt at survival. Travis itched to have his pencil and notepad in his hands, to stop time for a second and capture the scene.
"Travis are you listening to me? Put it down." Shit. He almost forgot Jones was next to him all together. Couldn't she side with Travis for once in her life? Instead of running to Derrick's aid like always? Didn't she understand what Derrick did? What he already got away with?
Travis shook his head.
"No. Then he will get away with it." He was sick of arguing with Jones. Travis tightened his grip on the gun.
He was ready to make some real art. A splash of red brushed haphazardly onto the bullet, a pool of blood that would look no different than a spilled paint can.
It'd be like that "raw art form" shit. His greatest work.
"Well then let him." Jones said softly. Derrick lost his staring contest with the gun to shoot her a confused look.
"Travis, we don't need to be a part of this anymore." Jones slowly moved beside Travis.
Fuck. Don't. Travis wanted to beg her to stop talking him out of it but her voice was already slipping through the cracks of his resolution. Maybe Jones was right. They could just walk away from it all right now, together.
Isn't that what you've always wanted? For there to be a together between you two?
"I know you," Stop. "You can be better than he is." Fuck, Jones, did you have to go there? Travis realized that she was going to talk him out of it, to stop him from screwing up like she always did.
How bad is that, really?
"Travis, put it down. Come on." The certainty of having the upper hand in Derrick's eyes almost made Travis pull the trigger right then and there. Almost.
Travis started turning towards Jones, needing to see her face as a final reassurance to not pull the trigger.
Dumbass.
He realized his mistake about one second after Derrick lunged at him. They smashed onto the ground, both wrestling for the gun. Travis tried to keep an iron grip but Derrick was fucking persistent. He almost wrenched it out of Derrick's hands when-
BANG
They both dropped the gun. Gingerly feeling around to make sure he wasn't hit, a wave of relief rushed through Travis. He would have broke out laughing if the situation wasn't as grim.
"Travis.. .?" Jones's voice was barely a whisper. In unison, the boys looked towards her.
For a second, Travis thought everything was fine. Jones's shocked expression was only from how quickly things escalated, right?
"Travis...call somebody..." She slowly sank to the floor. Travis was frozen, unable to comprehend what was going on. Jones was shot. And it was his fault.
No. No no no. Please god no.
The complete opposite of Travis's deer-in-headlights approach, Derrick had already slid over to Jones. Opening her jacket, the three of them stared at the rapidly growing red stain on her chest. It didn't seem real to Travis, like they were all acting in some overdramatic play with a shitty fake blood budget.
"9-1-1, Travis," The artist stared at Derrick, barely understanding what he said. "TRAVIS!" He reacted to this, flinching as unwanted childhood memories rose up to the surface at the sound of his name being yelled.
We don't have time for your sob story bullshit. Grab the phone, asshole!
Travis sprinted over to the bar, sifting through broken glass for the phone. Haphazardly mashing the buttons, he stared in utter confusion as he realized the phone wasn't working.
The battery pack, genius. Grab it.
He shoved the missing piece into the back of the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
"I need an ambulance. Someone's been shot." It took Travis a moment to grasp that the emotionless voice belonged to himself. He was starting to feel numb. The phone had slipped out of his grasp, the operator's voice turned into background noise that no one was listening to.
Derrick held Jones in his arms, mumbling that she was going to be ok, that she just needed to hang on a little longer. She began to go limp in response.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Travis didn't remember crouching beside the other two.
He barely registered Derrick saying something about getting a towel to stop the bleeding, didn't understand how Jones was suddenly in his arms.
Fuck. Was she even still breathing? Travis couldn't tell.
Think, you worthless piece of shit! You did this! She's going to die because of you!
He could have sworn an actual fucking light bulb flashed above his head. Help was already here, why wait for an ambulance?
"Aren't the cops downstairs? They probably heard the shots!" He sounded like a kid who just found the grand prize in the cereal box. "I'll go get them, they can help her!"
Travis sat still for a second, surprised by the silence. Why wasn't he getting a reply?
Would it really take Derrick this long to get a towel?
"I can't let you do that, Trav," Derrick's voice came from right behind Travis.
Oh. Fuck.
He didn't have time to fully turn around before the bottle connected with the side of his head. Travis was submerged into darkness for only a few moments, but it felt like an eternity. The unwanted childhood memories slowly crept back into his head.
"Ok, Travis. What do you see?" His father's voice, his real father, not some rockstar or actor or politician, just his regular dad's voice, carried the familiar phrase. It had been Travis's favorite game to play with his dad, when they looked at a piece of art and dissected it. Before the booze, before the yelling, before his dad never came back. His mom would smile and say, "I'm so proud of my two Picassos."
Harsh lights drowned out his happy thoughts. Travis could feel warm blood trickling across his forehead as he tried to figure out why the world was tilted. Wait. Across?
He realized he was on his side just as someone pulled him onto his feet. Arms hooked around his chest. Everything shifted again and Travis felt a wave of nausea rolling in as he was slowly moved backwards. His head throbbed. He blinked a few times and slowly identified that dark mass at his feet as Jones. Her discarded body looked so still, so...lifeless.
What's she doing on the floor..?
He could barely remember what happened before he blacked out.
"So, Trav," the speaker paused a second to let out a huff, apparently tiring quickly from pulling Travis. "I've been thinking. And, well, I'm still going to go on that skiing trip to Switzerland. I hate to say it but I only have one plane ticket."
Travis tried to reply but he was too groggy to put the words together. He halfheartedly tried to lift his arm up, reaching for Jones as he was moved farther and farther away from her.
"Oh, don't worry buddy, she's not going anywhere," Derrick laughed. "You and I are just going to take a little trip across the loft to paint a little. Doesn't that sound nice?"
Opening his mouth to take another crack at speaking, Travis vomited.
"Shit! Take it easy, kid. Almost there."
He was gingerly lowered into a sitting position, leaning against the back of Derrick's legs as he opened the door to Travis's studio. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort to stand him back up, Derrick pulled Travis's wrists above his head and dragged him the rest of the way.
"As I was saying earlier, I gotta get out of town for a while. Take some time off, a 'just me, myself and I' sort of thing, right?" Derrick rummaged through the unorganized piles of art supplies until he found paper and a pencil. Travis couldn't make out what his friend was writing from his position on the floor. "But there's always a catch, isn't there? There's always that bump in the plan, yeah?" Travis didn't understand why Derrick was asking so many questions when it was obvious he wouldn't receive an answer.
"And that hiccup, my friend, is you. 'Cause when you recover from that nasty hit to the thinker," Derrick tapped his head a few times for effect, "You're going to say I killed Jones. Naomi, too, while you're at it. And then the police are going to be looking for me! Can't really hide that well when you're wanted for murder, can you?"
It all came crashing down on Travis, kicking him out of whatever half lucid dream land he was floating around in. His enraged "you fucking asshole" was choked out as "fu...c...as..hol.." but it was clear from Derrick's smirk the message came across.
"In conclusion, it would be the best move to spin you into the guilty party. I mean, come on, it's not that hard to believe when you look at this freak show," Derrick gestured to the gallery sporting pictures of Naomi Preston, bullets sporting "Words" and a giant bloody handprint, all of which Travis had created over the past couple of weeks. "I'm a thorough guy, though. Have to cover all my bases, and you don't really have a motive besides being a fucking wackjob, do you?"
Travis had gained enough of his bearings to spit a few more obscenities at the young man above him.
Still wearing his goddamn infuriating smile, Derrick held up the finished product of his frantic scribbling. "Do you know what this is, Trav?" Not even waiting for a reply, he bent down and dangled the paper in front of Travis. "Your suicide note. It has all the gory details of how a loner artist finally lost it. Poor Travis, you couldn't live with the guilt of killing Naomi and Jones."
An assault of insults, taunts and bullfuckingshits lined up in Travis's throat, ready for him to open his mouth and unleash their fury, but they stood no chance against the dumbfounded, terror infused, "W-what..?" that finally lurched out of him. He couldn't focus on the letter, the words danced around like carefree children, singing a nursery rhyme about his impending doom.
"But t-that's not true...I didn't...no..." A useless plea of innocence followed Travis's pitiful cry of confusion. Derrick's smile widened, stretching across his face so tightly it had to be painful.
"Hey, you'll be like that famous artist! Shit, who was it..? The one who offed himself?" Travis's vision blurred once more, but he guessed from a mix of fear and exhaustion, not a bottle of vodka smashed into the side of his head. It took him a minute to realize Derrick was waiting for a response.
"V-van Gogh..?" He offered quietly.
"Yea! That's the one! Except, y'know, everyone will hate you for killing two innocent girls and you never made any art that meant jackshit. There's that difference," Derrick slapped his knees and stood up again. "That's about enough talking, right? We should get down to business, I'm on a tight schedule."
Travis lay on the ground, impassively mulling over his options as Derrick went into the other room to retrieve the gun.
You can't even stand up, there's no use in trying to fight Derrick.
He knew he wouldn't even make it close to the door if he tried to crawl.
There's nowhere to hide in here. Even if there was, he'd find you.
There was always yelling. But no one came running in after the gunshot, who would wait until someone cried for help to bust in?
Just grit your teeth and take it then.
No. There had to be another way. This isn't how it was supposed to end.
"Ok, Travis. What do you see?" He whispered to himself, rolling onto his stomach. He could hear Derrick's footsteps as he walked back to the studio. Derrick was humming an upbeat tune Travis couldn't quite place.
Time's up.
Fingers curled into his hair and he was yanked onto his feet again. Arms folded against Travis once more, trapping him into a tight grip, catching him from stumbling. The gun had snaked it's way against the bottom of his jaw. He could hear the paper crunching as Derrick snatched it with his free hand.
"March." Obeying the command with shaky steps, Travis retraced the path to Jones's forgotten body, the broken bottle and the discarded phone.
The phone.
Travis couldn't remember if he had hung up or not.
Now you're really stretching it.
What if the operator had heard? What if someone, anyone, was on their way right now?
They better hurry the fuck up.
Derrick abruptly pulled Travis back, forcing him to stop walking.
"Don't want to cut your feet on the glass, do you?" Derrick shifted. The gun was at Travis's temple, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. "This is it, Trav. Any last words?"
His heart pounded in his chest. Sorry, Jones. Travis found himself shaking his head ever so slightly.
"It's been fun." He wasn't even listening to Derrick anymore. He trained his eyes onto the front door.
"What do you see?" His father's voice was coming from every direction and the rough pitch was oddly soothing. The barrel was adjusted firmly against his skin and the gun went silent for a second.
Travis didn't know if the image of the door opening or the figures rushing into the loft were anything more than one final portrait of life for him to analyze. He wasn't sure if the following gunshot was from a miraculous savior, blasting him out of harm's way with just the pull of a trigger, or if it was just the weapon pressed against his head uttering its final goodbye.
He was a kid again, standing next to his father, staring at a blank canvas, unsure whether he would ever see the picture that begged to reveal itself.