4. Echoes

When Frey's injury worsens, he finds help from an unlikely stranger - Rema. What will happen when the two find out they have more in common than they could have possibly thought.

-Frey-

S**t. This is getting really bad.

It's been only a few days, maybe a week, since that run in with those thugs. The wound on my leg wouldn't stop bleeding. It was rather deep, so I bought a seing kit and sealed it up myself and forgot about it.  Now, the wound has gotten swollen and started smelling.  Thick fluid keeps coming out of it.  It throbs and makes it extremely painful to walk.  I think I only made it worse by threading it.

I've heard nothing about the guys I murdered.  I'm guessing they aren't releasing it to the public and probably are considering it to a gang related murder.  I know my blood was there, but I doubt my DNA is even in the system. Even if it was, nobody knows who I am... I don't even know who I really am.  If it gets too risky, I'll just hitch a ride out of state again.  I've done it a few times when things got too risky.

But at this rate, I don't know how much longer I'll make it like this.  I can hardly walk.  I'm cold, tired, and starving.  The voices mocked me for a while, then even it just left me alone after a couple days.  I wonder if I'm going to die, nameless and faceless in the street like the people I killed.

It would be fitting death. Almost poetic.

I stumble onto a park bench, throwing up in the snow. I feel like passing out again. My body shaking - both cold and overheated at once.  F**k, this is really bad.

I pull my knife out, rolling up my sleeve.  I need to see blood so bad. It's like an addiction to me - I can't breathe without it.  I'm in no shape to attack somebody, so I do the next best thing.  The only thing I can do.  I slash open my arm, watching that beautiful red blood fall.  The pain hurts, but suits. It stings, but it feels so good.

I can't stop myself until blood puddles on the ground.

I lay my head on the bench, my eyes sliding shut.  I find myself hoping I don't wake up.

"Why do you have to f**k everything up? Can't you do a single thing right, ya damn brat?"

"I'm sorry."

"F**k, can't even f*****g kill yourself right."

"I'm sorry."

"Goddamn, stop apologizing. It's weak. Help me with this."

I wiped the blood off my busted lip, reaching to grab one of the butchered corpses and help him drag it to the basement.

"I'm hungry... Can I have food after?"

"After you cut yourself? F**k no, you damn idiot kid.  You'll be lucky if I don't throw you in the closet for a week." He growls, "Now move it!" He kicks me down the basement steps, my head smacking against the concrete floor next to the body.


-Rema-

Work was slow again today. I made less than one hundred dollars in tips, but in a way I prefer it slow rather than packed with people.  Although, the less people that are there the more drama between the girls claiming they're stealing each others customers.

I got into a nasty fight with one of the girls who said I took one of her regulars. I ended up bruising her face, pulling a chunk of hair out of her head, and spraining her wrist.  That made the manager very angry, and the damages to the club are going to come out of my paycheck, but thankfully I kept my job and the girl didn't want to press charges.

It's too cold outside to be walking in a mini skirt, heels, and a short shirt with only a jacket to keep me warm.  I start wondering if I should flag down a taxi, but I don't want to deal with some pervert eying me the whole time.  It's only a few blocks home if I cut through the park and just hope I don't run into any crazies or drunk a******s.

As I walk, I notice a man sitting on a bench and dry heaving into the snow.  My first thought is that he's a drunk, but the way he holds himself looks more like he's sick rather than intoxicated.  There's something about him that's unsettling and yet familiar.  For a moment I'm torn between turning around on my heel and approaching him.

Against my better judgement, I walk up cautiously.  Eying the stranger as he puts his head down on his arms.

"Hey, are you all right?" I find myself asking.

He jumps and looks up at me, eyes dull and heavy.  He has no real expression on his face other than exhaustion.

"You need me to call somebody to give you a ride home?"

He just stares at me, making knots form in my stomach.  Judging by the torn and dirty state of his clothing and the unhealthy look of him, plus being out in the freezing cold in a park in the middle of the night while he's obviously sick gives me the impression he's probably homeless.

"You don't have a home, do you?" I take a few steps closer. My hands shaking, "Are you sick?"

He still won't answer me, just looks at me with this dead stare.

"Do you need somewhere to stay?" I can't believe I'm offering this to a complete stranger. I never did something like this before, but something tells me I need to help this person.  I see myself in him for some reason. "It's freezing out here, and you're obviously ill or something."

He appears to think it over, and a darkness flashes across his eyes for a split second, but he still doesn't answer me.

"I'm not going to do anything to you." I laugh halfheartedly.

He slowly stands up, nodding and following me as I lead him back.  He can hardly walk and seems to be limping on one of his legs.  I try to help him when he almost collapses several times, but he just pushes me away and keeps going.

The silence hurts my ears and makes me even more nervous.  What the hell am I doing?  This guy could be dangerous or some kind of psycho or thief.  I feel dumb for trusting him, but I couldn't just leave him there like that.

We get to my apartment and I lead him up the stairs which he nearly falls down several times before we get inside.  I tell him to sit on the sofa and he obeys, just staring at me.

"What's wrong?  Are you hurt?  Is it your leg? Can I see?" I ask a million questions, but I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall.

Slowly, he bends down to roll up his pant leg and reveal a horrible looking wound that shows obvious signs of infection.

I bend down to get a closer look. It looks like a rather deep gash, possibly a week old.  It smells awful and is bright red and leaking pus and blood.  It also looks like he tried to sow it himself with thread.

"What happened? Did you try to stitch this yourself?" I look up at him just to get that blank expression looking back at me. "Is this all?"

He pulls down the collar of his shirt, showing me another wound on his shoulder with similar stitching and infection.

"S**t... You need a hospital. This is pretty bad."

"No." He growls at me in a low voice.

I raise my eyebrows. "Okay... Uh, I can see what I can do if you really don't want to go to a hospital, but I'm no doctor... This is serious..." I sigh and stand up, rubbing my eyes as I try to think. "Let me get a first aid kit, take off your shirt and pants if you don't mind."

He looks confused and almost shocked.

"Your clothes are dirty and soaking wet, I'll get you new ones. I think I have some guy clothes around somewhere..."

I walk into the kitchen and grab the first aid kit and a bowl of soapy water.  When I walk back in, he's already undressed.  I'm kind of blown away when I see the mounds of scars on his body, even his face I didn't notice until now.

I shake myself out of it and sit down to look at his leg, carefully washing it.

"What happened?"

No answer.

"Did someone do this to you?"

Nothing.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

He just stares at me, not even flinching when I start cutting out the thread.  I hurt just looking at it, feeling as if I'm going to throw up.  He must have a really high pain threshold.  I wonder what could have happened to him and why he would sow it himself instead of seeking medical attention.  He could have died if he left it like this.

"Where'd you get all these scars?" It's hard not to notice them.  There almost isn't a inch of his skin that's untouched.

He visibly tenses, but doesn't answer me.

"You don't talk much, huh?  That's fine... Sorry I'm asking so many questions... Just... Never saw anything like this before... You look like you were tortured or something."

The scars on his body are much older than the wounds, maybe ten years old even, but they're nasty and angry. Appearing to be burns and cuts from either knives or possibly being flogged.  This makes me even more nervous, wondering who the heck I just brought home.  It feels like the beginning of a horror movie.

I clean out the wounds the best I can and bandage them.  My stomach tightens even more as his dull blue eyes just watch me the whole time, not flinching once.  It's like he doesn't feel pain.

"Let me get you some clothes.  Are you hungry? You should eat something." I ask when I notice he's rather thin. Not scrawny or anything, but he's underweight and I doubt he's eaten in a while.

Without a reply, I just walk off to get him clothes and make him something anyway.

He still doesn't walk the whole time he eats, and doesn't even thank me for helping him even though he could have died in a few days if it weren't for me.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Frey." He answers to my surprise.

"I'm Rema." I tell him, "Where are you from?"

"Not here." Well, he's vague.

"So, I'm guessing you don't have a home, right?" I ask carefully.

He only nods.

"You don't have friends? Anywhere to go?  I mean, it's becoming winter out there..."

"I don't have anyone."

A shame. He seems like a lost soul, just wandering around aimlessly with no meaning or support.

"Family?"

"Not that I can remember."

How can someone not remember their own family?  I wonder if he's just lying to me, but the numb look on his face is too haunting to be fake.  Who is he? Where did he come from? What happened to him? And why... Why does he seem so... Familiar?

I offered him to stay the night and to my surprise, he agreed and quickly fell asleep on the sofa.  I keep an eye on him for a while, more questions running through my mind.

A part of me feels uneasy around him, the way his eyes watch me and the flat lifeless tone of his voice. Another part of me feels like I know him, like I've met him before.  A strange connection I can't explain.  It's probably the only reason I let someone like him come home with me.  I'm a paranoid person: This is completely unlike me.

Author's Note

This chapter contains brief mentions of murder, mild blood/gore, mild violence, self-injury and suicidal idealization.

Okay, so the two serial killers met each other! What's going to happen?
And the part in italics in Frey's point of view is his nightmare/flashback of his past, which you'll learn is pretty fucked up. He's a fucked up dude, so he's got a pretty fucked up past to match.

"Strangers passing in the street. By chance two separate glances meet. I am you and what I see is me.
Do I take you by the hand? And lead you to the land? Help me understand the best I can."
"Echoes" - Pink Floyd.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Another amazing chapter. You use the who, what, where, why and how of every situation. I like how you make each scene come alive. I'm enjoying this tale. I liked the ending. Small kindness given. Thank you for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote