A/N: Okay, here's where the story goes Frankenstein on me and gets a life of its own. Believe me, I wanted to keep this simple, but scary-ubermensch-Justin!muse decided to crash the party. I'm not gonna be messy by labeling them with POVs, you guys are smart enough to know who's who and suchlike.
(The next part is going to have two titles; sorry about the length of Part Four in advance.)
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"Until This is Over" (a murder by numbers fanfic by SchizoAuthoress)
"Part Three: Bang! You're Dead."
A shrill cry, tiny and pitiful, sounded as the little victim beat futilely about her attacker's head. A heavy blow from the large attacker temporarily stunned the victim and drew blood, splatters of bright, candy-apple red on green grass.
Richard shifted restlessly in his seat, leaning forward just a little bit more to stare out the window down at the lawn, where the Pendletons' grey tabby was engaged in killing a bird. Justin's head was bowed over the biology textbook; the blond was mentally summarizing the next section in order to best explain it to Richard. Both ignored the other, absorbed in their seperate tasks.
Outside, the tabby had released the small sparrow. The bird hopped once, twice, away from the cat, unable to fly because her wing had been torn by the cat's open-clawed strike. Brilliantly cruel eyes watched her as she darted panicked glances at her surroundings, and the cat watched as well.
A sudden pounce, and Richard tensed, nearly snapping his pencil in two. The broken body of the bird tumbled away, trailing blood and ragged, blood-darkened feathers. The cat bared his fangs, leaping after it. A faint crunch as the cat took the bird's head into his mouth and snapped the neck, and then the small belly was ripped open, spilling pink entrails and red blood.
"Richard, please stop being morbid."
Richard jumped, brought out of his single-track focus by Justin's soft, scolding tone of voice. He looked up and saw Justin, elbow on the desk and chin on fist, watching him watching the cat. Cool amusement glittered in those hard, midnight blue orbs as Justin regarded him with detatched curiousity.
"I'm not being morbid," Richard replied defensively. "How am I being morbid?"
"You're watching Tigger kill another sparrow." Justin deadpanned, "That is morbid."
Richard picked up his pack of cigarettes from the windowsill, turned his back on the window, and rummaged in his coat pockets for his lighter. Sarcastically, he snapped back, "Oh, and planning to /murder/ people in cold blood isn't morbid at /all/."
Justin laughed softly and mocked, "Feeling a little squeamish about The Plan?"
Richard's pale eyes were hotly furious as they flicked toward his companion, thin streams of smoke caressing his lean, angular face, but he did not reply. Justin smiled at his silence and inquired sweetly, "Ready for some biology, then?"
Richard scowled, but replied calmly, "Go ahead."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A few weeks ago, Richard had been carelessly paging through the books in my room when he realized that they all had to do with philosophy, true crime, and forensics. Upon questioning me about the subject matter, Richard had found his imagination sparked by the macabre idea of killing someone and getting away with it. He wasn't in it for the philosophical matters, or for freedom. It was a cheap thrill for a rich boy with everything he wanted.
Perhaps not /everything/.
It isn't common currency in the town rumor mill, but a few people mutter among themselves that Richard Haywood is...as they delicately put it, a bit queer. It doesn't really matter to me. If he finds himself attracted to me--for whatever strange reason that I certainly can't see--then good for him. He'll be more willing to give me control.
Watching him watch my mother's cat, I can see that he has a childish fascination with death. He likes to see small things die. But a person? Could he kill a person with that same brilliant, heartless spark of cruel curiousity, or would he fail me? Could he even watch such a thing without having doubts?
I don't think so. But I suppose that I have backed myself into a corner. It was a mistake, really, to let Richard Haywood into this Plan so quickly and completely. A small mistake, and thus permissable, as long as it doesn't take on that nasty habit that mistakes have, which is to multiply into a million little mistakes, weighing down even the best and most detailed of planning until all crashes down around the planner.
I won't let it happen.
~End Part Three~
(The next part is going to have two titles; sorry about the length of Part Four in advance.)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Until This is Over" (a murder by numbers fanfic by SchizoAuthoress)
"Part Three: Bang! You're Dead."
A shrill cry, tiny and pitiful, sounded as the little victim beat futilely about her attacker's head. A heavy blow from the large attacker temporarily stunned the victim and drew blood, splatters of bright, candy-apple red on green grass.
Richard shifted restlessly in his seat, leaning forward just a little bit more to stare out the window down at the lawn, where the Pendletons' grey tabby was engaged in killing a bird. Justin's head was bowed over the biology textbook; the blond was mentally summarizing the next section in order to best explain it to Richard. Both ignored the other, absorbed in their seperate tasks.
Outside, the tabby had released the small sparrow. The bird hopped once, twice, away from the cat, unable to fly because her wing had been torn by the cat's open-clawed strike. Brilliantly cruel eyes watched her as she darted panicked glances at her surroundings, and the cat watched as well.
A sudden pounce, and Richard tensed, nearly snapping his pencil in two. The broken body of the bird tumbled away, trailing blood and ragged, blood-darkened feathers. The cat bared his fangs, leaping after it. A faint crunch as the cat took the bird's head into his mouth and snapped the neck, and then the small belly was ripped open, spilling pink entrails and red blood.
"Richard, please stop being morbid."
Richard jumped, brought out of his single-track focus by Justin's soft, scolding tone of voice. He looked up and saw Justin, elbow on the desk and chin on fist, watching him watching the cat. Cool amusement glittered in those hard, midnight blue orbs as Justin regarded him with detatched curiousity.
"I'm not being morbid," Richard replied defensively. "How am I being morbid?"
"You're watching Tigger kill another sparrow." Justin deadpanned, "That is morbid."
Richard picked up his pack of cigarettes from the windowsill, turned his back on the window, and rummaged in his coat pockets for his lighter. Sarcastically, he snapped back, "Oh, and planning to /murder/ people in cold blood isn't morbid at /all/."
Justin laughed softly and mocked, "Feeling a little squeamish about The Plan?"
Richard's pale eyes were hotly furious as they flicked toward his companion, thin streams of smoke caressing his lean, angular face, but he did not reply. Justin smiled at his silence and inquired sweetly, "Ready for some biology, then?"
Richard scowled, but replied calmly, "Go ahead."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A few weeks ago, Richard had been carelessly paging through the books in my room when he realized that they all had to do with philosophy, true crime, and forensics. Upon questioning me about the subject matter, Richard had found his imagination sparked by the macabre idea of killing someone and getting away with it. He wasn't in it for the philosophical matters, or for freedom. It was a cheap thrill for a rich boy with everything he wanted.
Perhaps not /everything/.
It isn't common currency in the town rumor mill, but a few people mutter among themselves that Richard Haywood is...as they delicately put it, a bit queer. It doesn't really matter to me. If he finds himself attracted to me--for whatever strange reason that I certainly can't see--then good for him. He'll be more willing to give me control.
Watching him watch my mother's cat, I can see that he has a childish fascination with death. He likes to see small things die. But a person? Could he kill a person with that same brilliant, heartless spark of cruel curiousity, or would he fail me? Could he even watch such a thing without having doubts?
I don't think so. But I suppose that I have backed myself into a corner. It was a mistake, really, to let Richard Haywood into this Plan so quickly and completely. A small mistake, and thus permissable, as long as it doesn't take on that nasty habit that mistakes have, which is to multiply into a million little mistakes, weighing down even the best and most detailed of planning until all crashes down around the planner.
I won't let it happen.
~End Part Three~
