Michael came to in a chilly black room, so dark he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed when he groggily awoke. He turned his head to the side and blearily rubbed at his dry, sore eyes. A quiet sob tore from his throat.
"Tyler!" He howled, as he rose shakily to his stiff knees and then pushed himself up to his feet. He tottered unsteadily, head spinning for a second, before he looked around. He squinted at his dark surroundings. Another horrified howl ripped from his chest, as the faint taste of copper filled his mouth. His eyes slowly adjusted, while his body throbbed with cold and pain. Abruptly, he saw a tiny sliver of light emanate from under the basement door.
"Ty..." He said, his voice shaky and sore from screaming. He took a step forward and fell, and tripped suddenly over something cold. The metal edge of it snipped through his thigh neatly, and warmth dripped down his skin. He shoved the small thing away and it rolled off into the darkness. He couldn't see what it was, and his thigh felt weak from the cut, overcome with fury in the claustrophobia of the filthy basement, he kicked the ground in anger and frustration. He crawled toward the only light, edged up the rickety wooden steps and reached the door. He hopelessly looked for the knob. There was none. He pounded on it weakly, and sobbed in shock when it didn't open.
"Ty! This... isn't...funny anymore! Tyler!" He roared, as he slammed both hands against the door. No one came. After a time, Michael lost what little control he had left and he punched at the door, and clawed and scratched at it until blood dripped down his cold fingertips.
"Ty....please lemme out. Lemme go Ty please."
He didn't come. Michael could see the shifting shadows outside the door, Tyler’s pacing feet casting grey splotches in the white rectangle of light. He crouched down, if he pressed his cheek to the chilly floor he could see Tyler pottering about his small kitchen, the small pale flats of his bare feet as he paced to the cabinet from the sink and back again. When he turned, his small pale foot flashed the tattoo of a bird, as if it were perched on the top of his toes.
"Tyler... please," Michael whispered hoarsely. "P-please..."
Tyler ignored him and Michael finally collapsed on the top step of the stairs, his legs curled up under him uncomfortably and his palms and nail beds bleeding.
After an indeterminable amount of time later, Michael woke again. He couldn't know how long he'd been out for, but he still felt exhausted to his core. "Tyler," he croaked, his voice dry and painful.
He peered through the crack between the door and the saddle and he couldn't see anyone out there.
"Tyler! Tyler!" He bellowed as loud as he could, his voice ripped up his throat. Suddenly footsteps padded carelessly to the door.
"Tyler! Lemme out!"
The feet paused outside the door.
"I-I-I'll....." Michael quieted and croaked; "Please."
The feet stepped forward to the door.
Michael tried to stand defensively but his stiff legs wouldn't let him. He moved himself backwards instead, and pushed back to the end of the stairs to the ground in front of it in fear. The door opened, and the bright light from the clean kitchen poured into the gloomy, dirty basement. Tyler stepped down the stairs, and flicked on the light outside the door before he descended. The dim light bulb swung from the wire on the ceiling.
"Hi," Tyler said pleasantly, as he sat himself comfortably on the last step.
"You..." Michael had no words for this betrayal. lost control and made a stiff, ungainly lunge at Tyler from his spot on the dirty floor. Tyler raised his hand and said sharply;
"Ah, ah Michael. Sit down, now. Calm down."
Michael faltered in confusion, and he saw Tyler tap his own chin with something that gleamed in the dim light. Gun, he thought dully. He crumpled back to the floor and his eyes blinked back pitiful tears.
He changed tactics.
"Tyler... Lemme go please. Please? I swear I won’t tell anyone…” He moaned.
Tyler staredat him carefully.
"Yeah, you will. Don’t try to lie to me, Mike," Tyler chastised him.
"You ignored my letters. That was mean. Hid my gifts. My gifts..." Tyler said steadily, but Michael could see a gleam of fury in his eyes. Inspiration struck him like a lightning bolt. "That's 'cause I didn't know it was you! That ...I didn't know it was you, so I refused them because I-"
"Lying." Tyler said softly, as he tapped his chin with the barrel of his gun.
Michael tensed up.
"N-no Tyler....Ty please I....you have to let me go. " He finished feebly.
Tyler ignored his sorry cries and stood up, turned to go back up the stairs. Michael was seized with the sudden terror that if Tyler left now, he was not going to come back. Not at least, until 'til I'm dead and he can- Michael gag reflex kicked in and he choked, and scrambled to his knees,
"Tyler! It's true! I refused..." He thought furiously and screamed, "I refused them 'cause I thought they were from someone else and I was....I was waiting for you!"
Tyler paused, his head turned back to observe Michael with a strange look in his eye. "You were what?"
Michael nodded frantically, as salty tears dripped into his mouth. "Yeah, Tyler I was, I swear."
Tyler moved back down to the last step. He asked softly. "You were?”
Michael nodded hopelessly, frantically.
Tyler considered this and he moved forward to Michael, as the gun in his hand swayed as gentle as a breeze. He paused in front of Michael and patted him on the top of the head like a dog.
"Good boy." Tyler cooed sweetly.
Michael sat there dumbly, too in shock to move, too fearful to protest. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
Tyler moved back to the stairs again and Michael gave a terrified squeak as he moved to leave.
Tyler gave him an achingly gentle smile.
"It's ok, I’ll be back down. Just be good, ok?"
Tyler left the room. Michael closed his eyes. He briefly and hopelessly searched his pockets, before he remembered he hadn't taken his cell phone or even any money with him. He sniffed, and got on his hands and knees, intent on searchingout every little nook and crevice in the small basement for a way out. After he ran his swollen fingers over every brick in the back wall, his right knee connected with something small that skittered away from him.
He squinted at it and reached to pick it up for a closer look. When his fingers wrapped around the chilly, thin metal his eyes widened in surprise. It was a spade, the like used for scooping up coal. Michael knew Tyler had a fireplace upstairs in his living room, and maybe...maybe there was a coal chute around here somewhere! Michael attacked his task with renewed urgency.
A few hours later, Michael had dejectedly realized there was no chute, not only was there no chute, there was no other possible way out. Michael sat on his ass, and he clutched the still-cold spade and he realized the only way he was ever going t get out of this was through the door at the top of the stairs.
A few hours later, Michael had woken without ever knowing he had ever fallen asleep. He came to groggily in the dimness, with his face pressed to the bottom corner of the door, lusting for light. The constant blank gloom was disorientating. Suddenly the kitchen flickered with light and Michael realized it must be night time because the illumination was cold and unnatural. He pressed his face to the crack under the door, and he impatiently brushed a spider away when it crawled over his hungry stomach. He hadn't eaten since Tyler had locked him down here, and he hadn't been eating properly beforehand because of his fear of the stalker. His stomach ached and itched.
"Michael?" The familiar voice echoed down from the kitchen as the thick door creaked open. Michael wondered why he would even call. Who else would be down here?
"Mikey..." Tyler closed the door tightly, locked it and bounded down the steps with excitement. "I have a present for you," he said formally, both hands behind his back as a slow smile spread across his face.
"A present?" Michael asked quietly. His skin suddenly felt clammy and shivery.
Tyler nodded, his lips pressed against each other. He winked and held out something in his square, white hand. Michael watched in shock as his own hand crept out and took it.
Michael opened the black jewellery box, his thumb twitched like it always did when he was anxious.
"What is it it?" he asked, but did not really expect an answer.
"Open it and find out," Tyler said, and the corners of his mouth turned up as he bounced on his toes excitedly. Michael did. He swallowed back a cry that itched and burned in his tight throat. There was a finger in the box. It was pink at the nail and pale with what looked like gluey meat, and soft, purple and blue threads at the knuckle. At the base, beside a peek of white bone a flaking streak of skin twisted in the movement, which swirled dryly like a ribbon streamer. For some reason, the skin impressed upon him that this hand come from the hand of a person.
"Oh," Michael heard his own voice choke out. He hadn't realised he said anything, until the faint scratch of his dry throat warned him. His eyes brushed over the skin at the base again and he dropped the box just in time to vomit onto the basement floor. It was watery and thin with a pink streak of blood dashed down the side.
"Why-Who?" He gasped, as bile spilled down his chin. He slapped his hand at his chin, the tickle of the liquid on his face distracting and disgusting.
"You said he was mean to you."
"I...w-what?" Michael whispered, as he pushed himself away from his vomit. His legs were shakey, and weak, and he fell to his knees.
"You said he was mean to you," Tyler repeated as though Michael simply hadn't heard him.
Michael noticed his own breaths were too deep and irregular.
"Who?" He repeated.
"You said you hated when he acted like that." Tyler said, and he shook his head, apparently confused by Michael's reaction.
"Oh God," Michael said faintly. Then his voice strengthened and he exhaled hard.
"Julian." Tyler said, and nodded.
Michael paled and he sank onto the dirty floor, broken thoughts of his friend flit through his mind.
A nonsensical, ragged stream of thought caught Michael’s mouth.
"He's a guitarist. How could you even...Now he can't play. Are you happy? Now he can never play his guitar." The words trickled from Michael's mouth without thoughts or progression.
Tyler's arched brows furrowed and he looked angry at how his gift was treated.
"No," He said, as he shook his head, curling strands of shiny dark hair tucked behind his ears. “You don't get it. I wouldn't leave him like that." Tyler protested, as thought the idea was insulting to his very character.
Michael chewed his lip. Ty lied. To scare him. The finger wasn't Jules's. Maybe it wasn't even real. As Michael looked again, he noticed how the finger was thick and looked swollen, almost bruised. A faintly hysterical thought arose in his mind and he saw a magician’s fake thumb lying in the box. It swam, and there lay a rat, streams of greyish fur and bloodied meat drying against the velvet. It swam again and the decapitated rat was replaced with a tattoo machine. The gun buzzed loudly and Michael remembered sitting in a hard plastic chair next to the tattoo chair where his friend hunched. He remembered holding his friend’s hand in comfort as the machine traced ink and blood over the patch of pale pinkish skin, inlying colourful swirls of the bird perching on the top of the foot, as if poised to take flight from above the toes.
"I killed him," Tyler said, and he looked at Michael with hope, as his head bobbed a little. "I let him go, I wouldn't leave him like that Gee, a guitarist missing his finger. That's just ...cruel."
All of a sudden, it felt like all the blood in his body rushed to Michael's head and he felt dizzy and nauseous.
"How would you even...You're half his size." Michael mumbled. Tyler crossed his legs, as he relaxed on the last step of the stairs.
"Mercury is not a good poison," Tyler said thoughtfully, as he leaned forward, his chin on his hands which were rested on his knees.
"I mean, not really unless you use mercury chloride. That's like a salt. If you ingest it, you'll taste it on your tongue. It tastes like metal. Then you feel your stomach burning. Soon after, you start to vomit blood. I was told then that you bleed from every orifice. I don't know if it's true, but the colours would be so pretty."
Michael nodded, too afraid to do anything but agree as Tyler’s cold finger traced his throat. Michael swallowed dryly. "Then your kidneys stop working and you can't urinate anymore. You die slow." Tyler leaned forward even more, his too-warm hand on the back of Michael's neck, as he whispered.
"I have some." A slow, happy smile spread across his face.
"I haven't used any yet, but I want to. I used digitalis on Ray. I brewed it and made it into tea. Digitalis really fucks your heart up, you know. It causes either," Tyler straightened up a little and announced, as though he has studied it, "-tachycardia or bradycardia. New Jersey is the pharmaceutical centre of America." He smiled shyly. He sounded worried then.
"I didn't know what to do with his body when I was done with it. So I put it with the other one in the basement." he frowned a little. "I hope they don’t start to smell."
"The other one?" Michael croaked, too scared to ask about what Tyler meant when he said he was done with the body.
Tyler nodded and he sounded a little ashamed.
"He wasn't for you. He was for me. I'm sorry." He said, earnest, as he leaned forward.
Michael stilled. "No."
"Mikey. I'm sorry."
"No..." Michael whispered.
Tyler looked ashamed. "You spend so much time with him."
"He's my brother.".
"I'm sorry." Tyler repeated and stood up. "But you don't have to spend time with him anymore, you can spend time with me. You can just have me." Tyler said, a little too brightly.
"I don't want to spend time with you." Michael croaked. "I want Mikey and Ray back."
Tyler's smile didn't falter. "But I'm your best friend."
Michael sank back down, the anger left him like a gust of wind.
"Thank you then. F-for that." Michael felt the need to say. Tyler relaxed and the tension seemed to leave the air as Tyler inhaled. Michael told himself he didn't notice how Tyler had loosened the grip of his gun.
Before he could react, Tyler jumped to his feet and and pressed his too-warm lips against Michael's cheek. Michael didn't react, too afraid to do anything in case it was wrong. He neither encouraged nor discouraged him.
"It's ok, Mikey," Tyler breathed out onto the smudge of dirt gone unnoticed by both on Michael's cheek.
Michael nodded. His neck felt stiff. "Then would you maybe let me go? Just for a little while?" He croaked. Tyler shook his head before he finished the sentence and Michael's voice rose in desperation. He stood, and left Ray's finger on the dirty floor.
It was the next morning before Tyler visited again and Michael had not been idle. He had sharpened and sharpened the spade handle on the rough stone wall. It still wasn't a weapon. But it was hope.
"Michael?" Tyler called as usual, as he descended the stairs. Michael coughed and answered raspily.
"Yeah. Tyler," Michael asked when Tyler had perched himself on the step Michael began to think of as Tyler's. "Can I have some water? Please?"
Tyler shook his head and Michael tried again, "Maybe some f-food? Or something?" He grew more desperate as Tyler shook his head.
"I'm sorry, but you can’t eat, not until you know how to be good." Tyler explained reasonably, his hands gentle as he cupped his own face.
"But....but what if I starve?" Michael whispered, pitifully.
Suddenly Tyler looked upset. "I just hope it doesn't kill you, Mikey."
Michael watched him quietly with weary acceptance. "Me too, Tyler. Me too."
Tyler played with ragged fingernail and mumbled, his voice grew stronger and more rambling as he told Michael about his day, his news. Michael nodded wearily, as he couldn’t bring himself to listen too intently about what happened outside his own cramped, dirty basement home. Michael thought that perhaps he was supposed to grasp onto every piece of news from the outside world like a lifeline, but it was easier not to dream.
"...and there are people looking for you now, they've finally realised you're gone. I told them you came to my house that night and drove off, but didn't tell me where you were going. I drove your car to the next town and trashed it. Sorry. Hopefully they'll think you got killed or something. Couldn't have them coming down here-"
Tyler's eyes flicked up to the door at the top of the stairs as red and blue lights flicked around the kitchen.
He stood and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He crossed the small gap between them, and clamped his small hand over Michael's mouth and he hissed,
"Make any noise and I'll kill you."
When he noticed Michael's expression, Tyler's face softened.
"Sorry. But if they find you they'll take you away from me."
There was a sharp knock at the front door. It echoed down to the basement, and bounced off the damp walls. Michael considered sinking his teeth into Tyler and screaming for help but after the thought crashed on him like a wave, Tyler withdrew his hand. Michael opened his mouth and quickly, Tyler shoved the barrel of the gun into his mouth. His eyes widened in shock at the cold metal, that pressed inexorably down on his tongue. Tyler moved again, to tear Michael's shirt roughly. He lowered his face to him.
"Make one noise and I'll shoot you."
Tyler tugged the hem from Michael's shirt, to split the material.
"I mean it. One sound and I'll start with your ankles, and then I’ll shoot out your kneecaps."
Tyler pulled his arm back and replaced the gun with a ball of material then quickly tied the strip of shirt around Michael's mouth.
The skin on his scalp crawled when Tyler's too-warm, calloused fingertips brushed over it. He shook his head frantically, his mouth obstructed by the makeshift gag.
There was a harder, more insistent knock on the door.
"Mr Franklin? Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions," A cool voice floated down the stairs. Tyler stood. "Not a sound," he reminded his prisoner and strode up the stairs, the thin light in the basement disappeared when he closed the door. I'd? Michael thought. Don't cops usually come in pairs?
Tyler opened the door to one policeman stood on his porch.
"G'afternoon Mr Franklin. I was hoping you could answer a few questions about a disappearance for me."
Tyler nodded and stepped back, and waved the cop into his living room.
"Of course. Have there been any uh...leads? That's what they call them, right?" Tyler grinned, and he slumped on his armchair to face the intruding cop.
"Sure. I'm Officer Garrison, we spoke on the phone..."
"Yeah, yeah, 'course. That cop Reynolds called by earlier." Tyler said heavily.
The officer gave him a patient, cool smile. "It'll just take a minute."
Tyler repressed a sigh. "Go ahead," he said through his teeth.
In the basement Michael's mind roamed. A trained cop, he thought, and imagined a tall, muscular man. Against Tyler, if it came to that. Michael envisioned his small, short captor wrestling with a cop.
Cop'd have to win, he thought desperately.
He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled to the rough wall at the back of the basement. He dug into the softer dirt and pulled out his spade, and he hugged it close to his chest. He stood shakily. The weakness and hunger almost overwhelmed him. He knees trembled, but Michael grit his teeth and focused. He gripped his spade close to him and stumbled to the bottom of the stairs. He climbed up them, one both knees and one hand, the other tight on the spade. He knelt at the top of the stairs and pressed his ear to it.
"-did he sound distracted when you spoke to him? Was his behaviour normal?"
"Yes, he sounded fine. Same as always."
"Did you spend a lot of time together then?" The officer questioned. Tyler frowned.
"Of course. We worked together, best friends. We were very close."
"Then why do you keep referring to him in the past tense?"
Michael's cold hand reached the door. He tried the knob but it was locked tight. His hand crept out to brush over the rusty hinges of the door itself. He swallowed, the chalky basement air dry in his throat. He fitted the sharp tip under the hinge closest to him. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his remaining strength, he pushed down on the handle, and used it as a lever. It creaked, but didn't budge. He gritted his teeth, and a nerve jumped in his jaw. A slight, growly whine escaped from his throat when his shoulder protested and the hinge didn't move at all. He swallowed. He had wanted to escape as silently as possible so there would be no fight, but it looked like it was impossible. He inhaled deeply, stood close to the door crack and then, he screamed.
Jumping swiftly, and turning sideways in a swift manoeuvre, his gun drawn, the cop pointed it at Tyler, right hand on his left wrist as he backed out of the room and into the kitchen. Tyler held his hands up and when the cop reached down to open the door, Tyler drew his .45 and aimed a bullet into Garrison's stomach.
It was slightly off; the bullet went through his upper thigh. The cop crumpled up on the floor and Tyler strode over. He writhed in agony, his mouth working hard as he tried to scream, but only choked gasps came out. Tyler dug his fingers into the bullet wound, the hot, sticky blood soaked his fingers as the cop roared. He kicked his gun away from him and ran to the kitchen. He slammed his fist on the door, too infuriated to think, he threw himself at the door and bellowed.
"Shut up shut up shut up shut UP!"
He grit his teeth, Garrison held a shaky hand to his leg and pulled his two-way from its holder on his waist, and he pressed the button.
Michael screamed in rage and terror, his dirty fists pounded on the door as the last echoes of the gunshot faded from his ringing ears. Suddenly a small crack split the old wood at the top and Michael watched in morbid fascination as it ran down the grain. He launched himself, threw his thin body against it again and again and Tyler slapped his palms on the other side, still chanted at him.
"Jesus, just please don't die man, ok?" A frantic, breathless voice pleaded on the two-way.
"Christ, shut up Reynolds, just fucking get here." Garrison snapped, as he panted a little in pain.
"I'm coming man, I'm coming, just hold on Gar, ok? You can't die, what'd I tell your wife?"
"You could tell her to stop screwing my brother, now just stop fucking around and get here."
"I'm coming!"
Michael buried the tips of his fingers into the crack and pulled it apart, and watched it widen before his brain caught up to his actions and he pulled his bloody fingers away and replaced them with the tip of the shovel. He watched as the outer half of the door fell down and forward, feeling as if he was watching himself from outside his body.
Then his eyes widened and he threw himself through the small gap, suddenly glad for his abrupt weight loss. His knee cracked against the floor as he launched himself at Tyler and pinned him down.
"Gee, stop it's me-" Tyler pleaded.
"No. You shut up!" Michael screamed and drove the tip of the spade as hard as he could into Tyler's chest.
