Chapter 1. Romance ended in bloodshed. One x One. Private.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


“I’m going to do research at the Million Dollar Saloon.” Research? Caleb was starting to think research just meant sex for this man. He ******** Caleb in the name of research and look where it got him! Well... Caleb would be here anyways even if he didn’t call Roger. So it wasn’t really a big difference. This man didn’t seem too thrilled to have Caleb standing around either. He probably wouldn’t even be allowed into that strip club. Caleb looked like a ******** wreck. He explained how drugs and prostitution went hand-in-hand. Roger was right. Oscar used to deal to Caleb and that was fairly obvious that he probably had connections with other prostitutes. He was staring at the floor spacing out after he muttered his simple, ”Yeah...” It was weird, imagining someone dead. Especially someone you just saw a few days ago.

“I won’t see you again after tonight will I?” Caleb snapped out of his la-la land and listened as Roger spoke about throwing him to the side and finding someone else who wanted out. He asked what Caleb was planning on doing next. The same thing he always did, duh. There was no question about it. He didn’t have a choice. He went back to the statement. So Roger would just find someone new? So what? Caleb didn’t want out enough? There was no out for him. Leaving Allen was impossible. It wouldn’t happen in a million years. Had he reached Oblivion yet? Yeah. In fact, he reached it twice. His eyes moved to the side, trying to avoid eye contact, as usual. He wanted to tune out every word Roger was saying. He reminded him of this one man he used to ********. He was a young guy, some college student with a rich father. He’d invite Caleb over and they’d eat dinner and then have sex. He took a serious liking to Caleb, developed feelings. Wanted him to be his secret boyfriend. The boy was in the closet, Caleb was a secret. It would’ve worked out perfectly. Well, long-story short he tried to kidnap Caleb and get him out of the mess too. Didn’t end well. It didn’t end well for anyone. Now Roger was talking about getting out of his life like it was all simple said and done.

He even asked why he stayed. No. It wasn’t because he was a double edged sword. Being alone and death. Those weren’t his only two options. Caleb didn’t know how dependant he was on Allen these days. His dependence constantly changed when it came to that man. How would his life be if he left him? Caleb had known Allen for nearly half his life now. Not having him there would certainly feel empty. But Allen is also the reason most Caleb’s other connections and friends were gone. The reason he panicked whenever he spoke to Roger. The reason he got beat up and did horrible things that made him hate himself. The reason he stayed? Well, some things were just bigger than right and wrong. Happy and sad. Life and death. Some things just had to be done. Caleb didn’t want to suffer through the nightmare of leaving. The domino effects that would crash down upon him. It didn’t matter what happened. Caleb belonged to him. That was already clear. Killing him was also way out of the question. Caleb didn’t have a death wish himself. Not like that.

”You’re so stupid.” Caleb finally voiced. "You don't know how anything works. Your going to get yourself killed or something. Nobody wants ******** reporters walking around. Someone will think you're a cop and kill you because everybody is so ******** paranoid and stupid." He shoved his hands in his pockets before exhaling, the burning sensation in his throat making it painful. "You don't belong here. You're not one of us. You're not one of them. Of the dumb scum bags who feel the need to cheat on their stupid wife or... Whatever. You're just going to end up getting dragged down too." Nobody could stand around the drug world, see so much bad stuff and keep a sane mine. Roger obviously took his job too seriously. The longer he hung around the sooner he'd end up trying some of the drugs. Hiring the wrong prostitutes. Spending too much cash. ******** the wrong person. Making the wrong enemies. Angels didn't exist. Saints didn't exist. None of them did. He'd end up corrupt and ******** up just like all the rest of them. What the hell was he trying to save by doing this? His sister was already dead. The awareness was already out there. He couldn't change anything.

Out Of Cocktails:
P.S. I made a spam thread s**t we can post in whenever. Here. If you ever feel like plotting something specific or whatever we can just chat there since PMs suck and are awkward to send.

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

The last thing Valentine remembered was opening up the window and shivering as the wind blew in. Only it was counter-productive because Valentine didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel anything except exhaustion. Every muscle in his body grew heavier and heavier as he drew closer and closer to the carpet. He closed his eyes just for a moment, laid on his stomach, sprawled out on the floor beneath the window. Even after thirteen years he still wasn’t able to sleep on his back. He drifted off into a hallucinogenic dream world of sleep. Bright colors and flashing lights and every emotion personified overloaded his mind. Nothing made sense. Complete nonsense.

It was the smell that woke him up. Even before he opened his eyes he could identify it.

He remembered reading an article about orchids when he was waiting at the free clinic. Reading seemed like a good distraction while waiting for the STD tests to come back. It still didn’t deviate the fact he had syphilis. The orchid lures flies by mimicking the smell of rotting flesh. The article compared the smell to road kill. Valentine was going to vomit. There was absolutely nothing in his stomach. Just bile. His hand covered his mouth. Covered his nose. It was the second scariest thing he had awoken to. The smell of gasoline…then the smell of rotting flesh. Was this going to become a reoccurring theme?

Reality caved hard on his chest. Making it difficult to breathe. To function. To think. He scrambled upwards. Looked at the brunette. To the walls. To the brunette. To the atomic explosion of black and pink spray paint all over his apartment. It seemed like a good idea at the time, ******** it was bloody brilliant! Now…it looked like a kindergartener’s scribble picture. He saw Holden sleeping on his couch. Or maybe he was dead. Valentine walked over to Holden. Grabbed his shirt pulled him up and then pulled him over the edge. Dumping Holden’s body on the ground. Then sat on his chest and slapped his face. It was probably the best wakeup call ever in Valentine’s opinion.

“HOLDEN? ARE YOU DEAD YET?” Valentine asked in his ear, as he pinched Holden’s cheeks. “You can’t die yet, remember, kill yourself on your own time. Right now we need to get her out of here.”

He reached for his cellphone which was on the coffee table and realized it was 2:20 a.m. His concept of time had been royally ******** for some time now. No pun intended. The best bet was to dump her in the river. Water erases evidence. Right? Valentine knew two things at that moment that he was absolutely certain about. He needed to dispose of a body and he was never going to try heroin again...probably.

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










It started with his body hitting the ground. His hardly-conscious brain registering blocks of pain smacking into the side of his head. Then his cheeks. "Mm?" He groaned. His lips were quivering together, matching his chattering teeth. He heard someone screaming about him dying. "I'm dying?" Then, his eyes shut tight as he leaned forward, gasping for air. There wasn't any air to ******** breathe! All that filled his nose and mouth was death and paint. He stood up and stumbled for the window, hanging his face outside trying to get a taste of fresh air. "S-s**t!" He screeched turning back around. He threw his arms out towards the girl. "Get the ******** Febreze!" He called out as he ran into the kitchen opening up the cabinet under the sink. He smacked some things around until he found a black garbage bag and ripped it off, then grabbed another. He double wrapped them and ran over, kneeling by the girl. He began to fit the bag around her, and managed to get her body inside, then he closed off the top and looked back at Valentine. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna-" He began hacking on the thick air again and ran to the bathroom. He knelled in front of the toilet and began puking. It smelled like she died, got puked on, was left out in the rain for a week, got moldy, then some cockroaches decided to live in her and was pooped on. He couldn't be anywhere near the ******** dead girl without flinching from disgust. Is that seriously what dead people smelled like? He couldn't... It wasn't... UGH.

"Dude, we can't ******** bring this through the apartment complex. We'll wake everyone with that ******** smell of death! We have to... Lets drop her in an alleyway. One of those huge garbage bins. She overdosed, it ain't murder. They can't ******** connect anything back to us." He stated putting his sleeve over his mouth to try and stay away from the smell. "It's garbage day tomorrow. She'll be brought to a dump yard and lost forever." He said wide-eyed. If only they had pigs. Holden already told them to get some pigs and keep them in the abandoned building his gang claimed. Pigs ate everything. They'd bite through bone and flesh. You just cut them up and feed them to the pigs and nothing would be left. Nothing. It was supposed to be popular with the ******** England gangs - but they had farmlands and s**t. Getting a pig in the city would be a lot harder, not impossible though. Seriously. Pigs were the way of the future.

He moved to the window, sticking his head outside and he looked down at the fire escape. He was trying to figure out how to get the body down. Would anyone notice two boys dragging a human-shaped trash bag down a fire escape? It was facing an alleyway, so, for the most part - probably no. But the chances of getting caught. Was it worth it? Maybe they should just throw her out the window, then go down and if no one was around the body they could finish dragging it to some trash bins behind the building. Yeah. That sounded like the best bet. Then this damned apartment room could finally start to air out. The smell of rotting flesh and paint would take ages to get away. "Bring her over her!" Holden called out. "Just drop her out the window. We'll walk down casually and if no one is around or spots it we can just drag it behind back. Seriously we can't ******** be dragging that s**t around the city. Shortest route is our best bet."

Holden felt horrible. The after-effect of the heroin was horrible. He felt like his insides were failing inside of his body. His whole body was shaky and his head. God his head. He wanted to crawl back in bed and sleep the day away. It was already clear he couldn't, though. Holden had to deal with this ******** girl and that left no time to ******** have time to b***h about the heroin effects. He had no idea how Valentine was feeling. Although it was safe to assume he felt just as shitty. They probably felt as horrible as the apartment looked. They destroyed the ******** out of this place. Pink, black and silver paint lines were everywhere. Black uneven blotches all over the ceiling. There were circles and lines all over the floor, chairs, walls. Pink giant blotches around the living room. They sucked at art when they were high.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger had the preconceived notion of saving the world when he was a child. It probably started after his sister died. Everything became a ******** after that.

Everything was a mistake. Roger didn’t understand what underlay social interactions. That invisible thread that connected people for the longest time Roger was under the impression he lacked one. Until he became a detective and went deep down into the gritty underworld of sin city. Until he started to meet children like Annabelle and people like Greyson; did that foreign emotion of wanting to protect someone, and doing anything to accomplish that began to gush through his veins. Roger pegged his emotional indifference, his stoicism, his monotonous existence, to be the key factor that got him through this job. Only things began to change.

“I had another informant before I met you.” Roger spoke. “His name was Julian and every time we met he looked worse and worse, and I didn’t do or say anything, because I was getting the information I wanted. Then, he stopped showing up, it was shortly after did I realize he was murdered.” Roger remembered Julian. Roger busted him for prostitution, but at the station cut him a deal. Information for immunity. It was because of Julian’s information that Roger received a promotion. Roger didn’t want to get involved with Julian so he kept distancing himself until…until…Roger was called to the scene of a sex crime. Found Julian mutilated. Every orifice penetrated. Pure signs of inhumane torture. It took Roger two months to track down the son-of-a-b***h who did that to Julian. A man, named Marshal Flenn, who was once in the military. Who was discharged for brutally torturing and raping both civilians and war criminals. When there was enough evidence to convict Marshal Flenn. Roger shot him twice in the knees and waited two hours playing solitaire on his phone before he called for backup.

Roger really wasn’t so different from them; except he wore a badge and drove a 1992 Crown Victoria.

Bottom line. Roger didn’t want Greyson to end up like Julian. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. “Which only leaves me with one choice I'm afraid. I’m not letting you return home. I guess I do have a heart after all. That’s selfish don’t you agree? To make me care for you only to get yourself killed? Very cruel of you Greyson. So you're coming home with me.” Roger then looked at his watch. That watch alone could pay for rent for a year. He originally wore it because he had dinner reservations with Lillian and her family tonight. At the kind of suffocating restaurant that wouldn’t let you in the doors unless you made over seven figures. It wasn’t such a bad trade-off anyways.

Once again his plans on investigating Marcello had been paused, but Roger WAS going to save Greyson. Because Greyson represented Julian...Greyson represented his sister...Greyson represented his mother. Greyson represented everyone Roger couldn't save.

“I’m hungry. Let’s go get Chinese.”

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


Caleb's heart stopped beating when he heard the word informant. Every atom of his body was telling him this was all off. Police men had informants. Did reporters? Apparently. Now he was becoming one of those paranoid assholes. Caleb wasn't supposed to care about that. The police weren't his problem. They were Allen's. Allen was the one who was supposed to keep everything under control and keep Caleb safe. He did a pretty damn good job at it too. Caleb had never once had to deal with any authority figures of the law. Julian died. That's the end of the story. Roger knew Julian and then Julian died. The end. Wow, grand fairy tail he had there. "I don't care. Nobody would murder me." He stated, trying to pretend he honestly didn't care. Whenever he heard about prostitutes dying, or jokes about dead hookers, he just felt horrible. That sinking feeling in his stomach. That stressing tingling in his toes.

Roger didn't have a choice though. He was... What?! He was bringing him home? No. No. No. No. He was not some goddamn pet for sale. He wasn't being brought to his home. If Allen found out he wasn't coming back. What would happen? No. That would be horrible. Roger went on talking about Chinese and being hungry.

"No." Caleb finally stated. "No. No. Your delusional. I can care for myself. I'm not a ******** child and you're not... I'm not your responsibility." He was Allen's responsibility. That was already made very clear. "And I'm not hungry and I have my own apartment and I need to get home and feed my cat." He started rambling on thanks to the stress he was feeling. Caleb didn't even have a cat. If he did, it would've been dead within' a month. He couldn't take care of anything. He felt like he was in horrible distress because of Roger saying something like that. He wasn't even sure if it was the Stockholm Syndrome or not. No. It was the feeling of needing to protect. Roger just didn't understand. Or maybe he did. He had a sister himself... Or had. She was apparently killed after being a prostitute for a while. Caleb didn't even consider himself a prostitute, he didn't have it as bad as most. When it came down to one thing or another, Caleb was always taken care of no matter what. His clients were always the same number of people. Never street rats and strangers. His rent was always covered. Allen set up how many drugs he was allowed for the week and when he could buy them. As long as he followed the rules his life was tolerable. Maybe even enjoyable. It was the only thing he knew.

He wasn't losing this. Caleb stepped backwards and pulling out the glock 22 from his pocket. It was unloaded, and the safety was still on. He didn't even know how to turn the safety off. He didn't know the first thing about guns, but hopefully this reporter didn't either. He pointed the gun towards Roger and continued trying to step backwards. "Just go away. Get away from me now. Go away." He looked towards his hands to notice they were still shaky. His body would probably continue tweaking until he got himself some uppers. Maybe he just wanted some alcohol. Caleb usually drank a lot before, or after getting ********. If he was sore, tired, or just plain dealing with withdrawals that were annoying he'd just go ahead and take some drugs instead. Although he tried to stick with alcohol. It made him feel less of a useless drug addict.

[Cortisol]

V A L E N T I N E

Valentine sat on the coffee table his hand over his mouth and nose. This was his punishment. This was the karma for his crimes. Valentine was very superstitious. He avoided black cats, avoided the number 13, didn’t walk under ladders, didn’t open umbrellas indoors, didn’t knock over salt. He kept a horseshoe over his doorframe, a rabbit’s foot on his keychain, and a laminated four leaf clover in his bedside drawer.

Everything was too real. The first time he killed somebody he didn’t even understand the concept of death. At fourteen he was supposed to be a freshman in high school. Reading Shakespearian plays, learning algebra, dating, and going to school dances. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t know how many times he pulled the trigger. Kept pulling until nothing but blank shots came out. After the first time it was like his mind was on repeat. His body stopped responding. He was stuck, until they grabbed him and ran. They ran in all directions. Valentine collapsed in an alleyway and puked.

Valentine had murdered three people…and it didn’t get easier. Holden seemed unaffected and told him to get the febreze. Valentine still didn’t move even when he heard vomiting noises coming from the bathroom. He hoped he made it in the toilet and not the floor…one less mess to clean up. Those magic words broke Valentine’s hypnosis. It wasn’t a murder. She overdosed. It was her own free will. Valentine didn’t force her. He grabbed the febreze and began spraying it. Just like the trigger he held it until nothing came out then he dropped it to the floor.

‘Bring her over here!’

The Febreze helped a little. It was easier with the black bag over her head. He couldn't see her…her bloated body festering. The sound of a fly buzzing. Valentine bent down and picked up her legs. She was heavier. He began dragging her to the window. Gasping for breath. He dropped her legs and walked around and picked up her torso. Her body felt squishy. He could feel the skin squash beneath the bag. He shoved her onto the fire escape.

The sound of her body hitting the concrete made a disgusting thwacking sound. It was that point when Valentine’s heart was beating so fast his chest ached. A layer of cold sweat chilled him to the bone as if he would never feel warmness again. They waited a while before leaving the apartment. Valentine didn’t say anything. Every inch of his body screamed and wailed and shrieked in pain. With Holden’s help they managed to dump the body into the dumpster. Covered it up with other garbage.

“I need to take a shower…” Valentine managed to say before walking to the bathroom. He was on pins and needles. No pins and needles were being inserted into his body. He could smell it on his skin. Was he rotting too? He ripped off his clothes and caught sight of the bubbled flesh of his back and left arm. Just looking at himself and he wanted to puke. Proof that Valentine really was a monster. Proof that Valentine was a survivor. He scrubbed everything. Until skin layers rubbed off and parts of him started bleeding. Only then…only then did Valentine feel clean again. He wrapped himself in his black bathrobe and walked out. White was a pure color. Valentine wasn’t pure. He carried with him clorox.

“They won’t find her. They can’t trace her back to us.” Valentine repeated as he poured the Clorox over the carpet. “I think I’ll take another xanax and valium cocktail and go to sleep for three or four days.”

Pill bottles and an empty glass of water on his bedside drawer. On his stomach. Head turned to the side. The windows were open. Everything smelled of febreze, and Clorox, and decay, and vomit, and drugs, and polluted city air. That was how Valentine ended his day.

[U n d r a w n]

H o l d e n










Splat.

[********] Holden looked away from the body as he heard the body slam against the ground. He grabbed onto his hair brushing his hand behind his head. What the hell had he gotten himself into? He had a horrible trip, tried heroin, and was now working on disposing of a dead body. They spent a while waiting silently to see if anyone would notice the body, if they could see any windows opening to look down at what fell. Nope. Everybody was sleeping, he guessed. Maybe they just didn't care. Maybe they didn't see it. After they moved down the stairs they moved out and snuck around the building. With both of them pushing and pulling the girl they managed to drag her to the dumpster and shoved her inside. Holden scrambled on some box to stand up and shove garbage to hide the dead body. There. Now she was taken care of. He'd never have to look at another dead body again. They both rushed fast as hell back to the apartment. Once they were inside those doors they'd be free from the ******** hassle of having to deal with that. Shutting the door to the room was the most relaxing sound he had ever heard. "s**t. Thank God." He looked up as Valentine stated he needed a shower. "Yeah." He moaned as Valentine moved into the bathroom. Holden moved over to the window and tried opening it up wider to get rid of the light smell of death that still lurked among the room. He sat on the couch, bringing his legs up to his chest and rested his throbbing head over his knees. He lightly put his arms up, tangling his fingers in his hair. "s**t..."

Not there was no distraction. No adrenaline. The come-downs from heroin was all that was left. And God did he feel like he was dying. It felt like s**t. He looked up when Valentine came out from the bathroom in a black robe and Clorox. He began to clean up the floor and spoke about taking some self-medication and dropping into a coma for a few days. That actually sounded lovely at the moment. "I think I'm going to go home." He stated. Holden didn't want to be anywhere near this apartment for at least a few days. He wanted the smell of death to leave and the images of the dead girl's face to leave his head. He wanted to forget about dragging her to the trash and throwing her out. Ugh. He never wanted to see another girl for the rest of his life.

"If you need anything or ******** or whatever text me. My number is 111-1111(Lol. Too tired to make up some fake number. That'll do for now.)." He slowly stood up, stumbling one and reaching out to grab the top of the couch. "Be good and s**t. I need to ******** sleep this off..." He complained. He dragged his body along the room and opened up the door, slowly walking out and moving to the subway station where he sat on the nearly-empty train waiting for it to arrive at his stop. After it stopped he stumbled out and dragged himself along the sidewalk. It didn't take long to get home then. He walked through the door to see Jason on the couch, some girl riding on top of him. "Oh Jesus Christ!" Holden said throwing his hand over his eyes.

"s**t! Holden where the ******** you been!?" Jason cupped his hands around the girl's chest and shifted her to the side. "Nope. Not happening. Nope. Going to bed. If I'm not up in 2 days wake me up." He said slamming the door behind him. He went to his bed and threw the pillow over his head. "Jesus Christ kill me." He whispered as he heard the girl moaning and groaning in the other room. All he could think about when he saw the naked girl was that half naked girl laying in Valentine's apartment. The death. s**t.

Last thought he had before passing out again.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger stared down the barrel of the gun.

“You’re going to be so egotistical as to say nobody would murder you, Greyson? Are you suggesting that you’re God? There is a line to be drawn when it comes to denial. Talk about having a complex.”

Roger knew different types of guns like fashion designers knew different types of fabrics.
The first gun Roger held he was seven. Roger had so much useful and useless knowledge he could write books on the topic, if he ever had time. Only, the thing that shocked Roger the most wasn’t that Greyson pulled the gun on him, he knew the gun was in his pocket, but it was what kind of gun he actually pulled out. Those were police issued guns. More than half of the police down at the station walked around with a glock 22. It was the best-selling police pistol. How ******** ironic that Greyson would be holding one and pointing it at him. He was holding the gun all wrong and his hands were shaking so violently Roger almost suspected he would drop it.

“You’re going to shoot me? Where? Have you decided? The chest? The head? The leg? These are all very important decisions, Greyson.” Roger asked sarcastically. Everything was so backwards. He was calm, probably because he realized the safety was still on. “You’re only left with these choices? Either I let you go back, or you shoot me?” Roger combed his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. This whole day was ******** stressful. It would be easy to wrestle the gun away from Greyson. Strike to disarm. He began talking a step closer and closer to Greyson. “You look tired Greyson, when was the last time you slept? Your bloodshot eyes. The purple eyelids. I would say you haven’t slept in a couple of days. Were you on uppers? Are you on uppers? You look hungry too. Why don’t you eat something? What’s your favorite food?” By then he had grabbed Greyson’s wrist with one hand and the other jerked the gun away.

Polymer hitting pavement. Then Roger picked it up and tucked it between his pants and his abdomen. “You smell good. What shampoo did you use? Your skin is still blotchy red. Did you think you could clean yourself if you scrapped your skin off in the shower?” It was the rapid question technique. A mixture of both relevant and irrelevant questions. Greyson needed a psychiatrist and to be locked in a drug rehab center. Maybe up in the mountains. “Let’s go down to the pier. You can do some scream therapy.” The pier was only a few blocks away. He gripped Greyson’s wrist and jerked him and pulled him and pushed him. The two blocks until they reached the pier. Then they walked out on the pier. The sounds of waves splashing was almost therapeutic.

There was nobody around. It was too early and yet too late. “Now scream. If you want to go back. Scream until somebody comes. You can even say how much you hate me. If somebody comes I’ll release you…but if nobody comes then you have to come home with me. That’s the deal.” Roger said this, but he still didn’t release Greyson’s wrist.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


He narrowed his eyes. Caleb didn't even know what egotistical meant. He sure as hell wasn't going to ask and look like an idiot. Roger began asking if Caleb thought he was God. No. He was not. Nor was he in denial. He wasn't dying. Caleb wasn't dying. Well, everybody died of course he was one day. But he wasn't dying anytime soon. Roger didn't even look afraid that the gun was at his face. He just kept talking, and talking. Asking all this questions. Drugs. Sleep. Looks. Roger reached out snatching Caleb's wrist. It wasn't like there was anything Caleb could do. Shoot him? Caleb found it ironic how yet another bluff in his life didn't work. Roger picked up the gun and slipped it away from Caleb. Why? Why? Why? Why?

He spoke about scream therapy. Screaming? Shouting? No. Once at the pier it was colder. The winds were always stronger coming from the water and the breeze stung his sore face. He looked over at Roger who expected him to start screaming his throat out. His raw, sore, scratchy throat. That wasn't happening. It hurt too much. That one scream he made into his hands before delivering the guns hurt. It felt like he was tearing this throat in half. However, he did say if someone came he'd let Caleb go. Was it worth a try? Caleb turned around looking at the closed shops nearby. No homes, no people, no hope. The only source of lights was the moon and the street lights flickering on and off nearby. Caleb crossed his arms giving up. He needed a new plan. Texting, or calling Allen after Roger fell asleep. Allen would know exactly what to do and walk him through each step. It wouldn't even be a problem.

Quiet, obedient. That was exactly what Caleb became. He guessed his little persona Greyson came out. Caleb got withdrawaled into his head and floated off to la-la land. His body still managed to walk and do what it needed to do without a brain. That's why it was Greyson. Nope, No Caleb there. Caleb was off walking back to Allen's. Ready to give him a huge amount of money in his pocket. This is what it felt like when he was being traumatized. When somebody was doing something sick to him. When someone was hurting him. When he was afraid. Why was Roger doing this to him?

Caleb went to his house without protest. The moment he walked through the door he slipped his hands into his pockets wrapping his hand around Allen's phone in one hand, then holding the large sum of money tightly in the other. Caleb had never been in a home like this for any other reason aside from sex. He took his hands from his pockets and unzipped his sweatshirt dropping it to the floor. Sex. That was exactly what he'd do. He'd have sex with Roger, tire him out, then wait for him to fall asleep and leave. He could stay awake longer than this man, right?

Caleb moved forward unbuttoning his pants and then placed his lips on top of Roger's. He lightly tugged at the other males pants, using little tricks to attempt to turn him on. Lightly swiping his fingers along Roger's spine, letting out a breath in the man's ear, tiny things that Caleb had practiced many times before. He was fairly sure Roger wasn't just bringing him home for some sex, but Caleb could change the other male's mind. He knew he could. His mind was dropping back to the first thought he ever had when he first met Roger. Want me. Want me. He'd never had to work so hard to get someone to have sex with him when it came to Roger. Then again, he'd hardly ever had sex with someone that wasn't being paid for. "Where is your bedroom?" He asked as he tugged at Roger's shirt.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Just for a moment in time Roger had thought he had gotten through to Greyson.

Then again Roger was an opportunist. Maybe, just maybe, Greyson figured it out all on his own that Roger was genuine and it really was a mistake to go back to those people. Maybe somewhere his fight or flight mechanism kicked in. Survival mode and he realized if he went back…he could very well die. Roger at that moment didn’t understand the psychological fragility of Greyson’s mind, or that his sudden obedience was brought on from years of abuse. Greyson just followed Roger back to the apartment. Not saying a word. Silence blanketed them like cold snow. It was only when Roger closed the door of his apartment and turned on the lights did the snow that covered Greyson began to melt.

Greyson began to move like a programmed sex toy. Unzipping his own sweatshirt moving towards Roger. Greyson’s fingers on Roger’s flesh. Greyson’s lips on Roger’s lips. Roger wanted to kiss back...but he couldn't. Not now. Roger froze. Greyson was going to seduce him? Again? Roger’s fingers slipped into Greyson’s pocket. Grabbed his cellphone. There was absolutely nothing in Greyson’s eyes. It was as if he wasn’t even conscious. Sleep walking. The hollowness and emptiness it beat hard against Roger’s chest. His body reacted before his mind. His hands shoved Greyson back. Dropping Greyson’s cellphone in the process. Harder than he would have liked. “STOP!” Roger screamed. It was the first time his voice went so loud in a long time. Roger’s skin flushed. His heart quickened. Was this panic? Embarrassment? ******** these emotions. And ******** Greyson for making Roger feel this way. “Do you think I brought you back here just to ******** you? Put your clothes back on!” He quickly bent down and grabbed Greyson’s cellphone, holding it like a weapon.

“You were going to seduce me, and then call him right? This isn’t how this evening is going to end!” Roger said trying to regain his composure. He took a few deep breathes and was brought back to homeostasis again. Back to being balanced. “Let’s start over…okay? Hello, welcome to my home. Would you like anything to drink? How about soup? Do you want to eat soup? I’ll make you some chicken noodle soup.” Everything in his apartment was new and shiny and clean. But, empty. It was almost like a display. Lifeless. No photos just abstract paintings. Everything smelled of lemon pledge. It was just as robotic as Roger was.

Roger walked to his kitchen. He trying to remain calm and collective, but he kept shaking. Muttering incoherent sentences under his breathe, and used the word '********' a lot. He grabbed a can of soup, ripped open the soup and dumped it into a bowl. Plop. It splattered on the counter. He shoved it in the microwave. Fetched a glass filled it with ice and water from the refrigerator. Took out a loaf of french bread and ripped a piece off. Slammed the bowl of soup, the glass of water, and the piece of bread on a tray. Looked at his masterpiece realized he forget the spoon and cranked open the silverware drawer. Then slammed down a spoon before picking the tray up and slamming the tray on the glad table. “EAT!” Roger commanded. “After you eat I’ll give you a pair of pajamas and you can go to bed. That is how this evening will end. Now EAT!”

"Now, do you prefer cotton or silk pajamas?"

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


Rejection.

That was not something Caleb had ever felt before. At least, not like this. The second the phone hit the ground his body tensed up and he brought his hands to his side. Roger was screaming: "STOP!" His eyes were stuck on the phone. He needed that. Roger snatched it before Caleb could. It was still in shock from the sudden yell. He didn't want to move his body yet. Roger was yelling about how he was going to seduce him and call Allen, then explained that wasn't what was going to happen. Roger wasn't letting him leave. Roger started on again, talking about his house and food or something. Caleb was only half-catching his words. His mind was still on the cellphone. He followed Roger through the empty-looking apartment. He sat at the kitchen table as Roger ran around mumbling and cursing under his breath. He tried to make out some of the words but he couldn't do it. He wanted to know if Roger was mumbling about him.

When the food was placed in front of him Caleb couldn't feel less hungry. Sure, he could feel his empty stomach but that didn't mean he wanted it full. He didn't want to make Roger more angry at him though. He felt like Roger would end up beating him up or something. Roger yelled at him to eat once more and Caleb slowly stuck the spoon into the soup. He mixed it around a few times and then brought the spoon up, lightly placing it in his mouth. He swallowed the soup and then drank some water, then took a bite of bread. Was that enough? Yes? Please? He didn't want to eat now. He didn't feel hungry. Just sick.

"Now, do you prefer cotton of silk pajamas?"

Caleb looked up from the soup trying to figure out what the ******** was cotton and silk pajamas. All he slept in was sweatpants, or boxers usually. He felt more comfortable in boxers anyways. He thought. He never wore cotton or silk ones, of course. "I dunno." He muttered. "Silk." He said, since that one seemed more fancy to him. He waited for Roger to go get the pajamas and once he left the kitchen Caleb sprinted to the garbage dumping half the soup inside. He also chucked in a piece of bread to make it look like he actually ate. He placed the bowl back on the table and pretended he didn't stand up at all.

When Roger came back a few moments later Caleb stood up taking the pajamas. "I'm full. Please can I have my phone back. I need it. I don't appreciate you stealing it." He said as calmly as he could. When he dropped the screen lit up and he managed to read the: Two Missed Calls flash up on the screen. He didn't even get to see the texts yet. He missed for of those. The four of them read:

Allen
I got a call from Jared and he said everything went
well. When will you be home?

Allen
Answer your phone. I do not like being ignored.

Allen
Where are you?

Allen
Do not make me angry.

Had he seen the texts, he would've dived out the window trying to escape Roger's home. The last thing Caleb would ever want to do would be making Allen angry. He had to find a way to contact him and explain everything that was happening. He didn't memorize his phone number, so his only option was finding a way to get his phone back so he could text him through the contacts.

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger was nine and Olivia was fifteen. Stop.
The last time Roger saw his sister alive. Stop.
A week later, on Roger’s tenth birthday. Stop
Olivia’s corpse was found. Stop.
End telegram.

Roger came back with a set of black silk pajamas. A buttoned up shirt and draw string pants. He noticed Greyson’s tray. How convenient that within the two minutes Roger was gone his soup vanished into his stomach. Really? Greyson was a child. A pitiful sexually abused child. He was born in trash and will die in trash. Greyson was trash. His father’s logic banged against his skull like a hammer. Victim blamer. You don’t help trash you burn it. He set the pajamas in front of Greyson. “Cellphone?” Roger asked innocently as if he didn’t already look at the messages that Allen sent before turning it off and putting the phone in his bedroom safe. So his name was Allen, eh? Roger had the compulsion to call the station and look up every Allen on record. A person like Allen would have his prints in the system. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. Now go to sleep. Goodnight.”

Fitzpatrick had left a message on his cell phone saying he got copies of the security tapes and had been cross-referencing them with people who were already in the system. Roger sent a text message telling Fitzpatrick it was important to see if the kid carrying the duffle bag was in the system. Wanted to know if Greyson was in the system and what for. Prostitution? Roger fell asleep for three hours before waking up at seven a.m. on the dot. Sunlight poured through the windows. Roger was on his fourth cup of coffee when Greyson came out. Greyson had that manic expression in his eyes. The expression of withdrawal. More crimes happened when people where going through withdrawal than when people were tweaking out of their ******** mind.

“Good morning sunshine, how did you sleep?” Roger asked blandly. “Do you want some orange juice? I won’t offer you food because you’ll just waste it by throwing it in the garbage. They’re starving people in this world, and you just throw away perfectly good food.” Roger stood up and placed a glass of orange juice at the end of the table, and Roger at the other side. Just like the set up for an interrogation room. Only they normally don’t give out orange juice. Normally. Just fear and terror and threats. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you will answer them for me. Answer all my questions and you can have your phone back, deal?” Roger said as he flashed the peace sign. Then grabbed his note pad, took a sip of coffee and picked up his pen.

“Oscar, you said you bought drugs from him. Exactly what drugs did you buy, and did you know if Oscar was selling heroin? Oh, and who is Allen? What relation do you have to him? Is he your pimp? Is he the one who made you deliver those guns?”

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


Ugh. ********. Laying in a different bed was horrible. Sure, the pajamas made it feel like he was sleeping on clouds, but, it was still horrible. He spent his night tossing and turning, closing his eyes tightly and sitting up, imaging horrible things. All of them moving through his head. He had to get that phone. He had to speak to Allen. He was going to die if he didn't talk to Allen. He slipped into a small nap and when he woke up he went to check to see if Roger was anywhere to be seen. Yup, he was right there. "Good morning sunshine, how did you sleep?" He nodded his head. "Fine. Thank you." He offered orange juice, then added in that he didn't want to offer him food since he'd waste it. "No thank you." He answered again.

Beat in. Yup. Caleb already attempted his fight to get out last night. Obviously there was no way out. Giving in always made things less painful. He lightly sat down, gently leaning back trying to ignore the comments about starving people in the world. Caleb didn't ask for the soup the other night. Roger tried to force him to eat, he didn't want to waste it. He wasn't a greedy a*****e. He didn't want to be one at least. Roger was going to give his cellphone back if he answered the questions. Yes. Yes Caleb could do that. He would answer anything.

"Oscar is...." Dead. His drug dealer. What? He had too many thoughts to organize. "I bought from him once every week or two." He stated. "I don't know. I don't do heroin. Just cocaine... But like I mean I don't know. I just do any pills he gave me for the week. A lot of them I dunno what they are. Stuff with amphetamine and s**t in them. He probably gave me different types each week." He stated quickly, hating himself. He didn't know why. Voicing it like that didn't sound good at all. It made him feel like some dirty street rat. Of course, Caleb froze up when he asked about Allen. "I don't know." He quickly stated out of panic. Allen? He wanted to know about Allen? How did he learn his - well, obviously the phone. Allen was going to kill him when he found out someone took his phone. He couldn't find out. However, I don't know obviously wouldn't fly with Roger either if he saw the name from the phone.

"Allen isn't my pimp." He said placing his forehead against the table, closing his eyes letting out a deep breath. "He's not my pimp." He repeated, just to make it clear. "And I'm not a prostitute. I'm not a stupid prostitute." He tried to convince Roger, or, perhaps convince himself. "I don't want to talk about Allen." It was too confusing. The relationship with Allen, the story, the background. He just didn't want to get into it. All he knew was if he didn't get back horrible things would happen. If he told this man about Allen, about his job. About the connections. About how nobody knew him. Caleb wasn't allowed to talk about Allen because Allen explained many times before that he didn't exist to most people. No, not the underground world of drugs and violence. Allen didn't exist there. He only existed to the legal world. He only existed when he was at work or with his girlfriend. "Please I need my phone. I can't talk to you."

[Cortisol]

R O G E R

Roger calmly sipped his coffee. Eyes closed. Listening carefully to everything Greyson said. It was true that Greyson was speaking and making logical and coherent English sentences, but he wasn’t telling him anyways. He ******** wasn’t telling him anything that Roger didn’t already know. The only thing Greyson said that was any surprise was that he wasn’t a prostitute, he wasn’t a stupid prostitute, and Allen wasn’t his pimp. Denial. Denial. Denial. The human mind was beautifully frightening with what it can do. All the lies become true in an instant. When Roger finished the coffee he stared at the white mug. Greyson was only beginning to piss him off. He stood up and threw the mug at Greyson. He never intended to actually hit Greyson with the mug. Instead it shattered on impact when it struck the wall behind Greyson.

“TELL ME WHAT ALLEN DOES! TELL ME HIS PROFESSION AND WHAT HE MAKES YOU DO. DO THAT AND YOU CAN HAVE YOUR PRECIOUS PHONE!” Roger screamed his hands pressed so hard against the table he thought his wrists were going to snap. He had become Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. All by himself. Unlocked the secrets without ever needing a special potion. It was a switch. Especially, in the interrogation room. When Roger and Fitzpatrick tag teamed. Roger was the voice and the psychological warfare. Fitzpatrick was the muscles and the physical contact. Greyson had froze up. He froze up the moment Roger forced him into his apartment. It was time he became unfrozen. The time was ******** now.

In college Roger learned that anger is a short madness. Maybe that was what happened to Roger. He simply went into a short madness. He approached Greyson and grabbed his wrist. “Come here. You have to see something...really ******** see.” Roger said angrily as he jerked Greyson to his feet. Honestly, there was nothing to Greyson. He was a skeleton. Roger pushed him into the bathroom and stood behind him. There in front of them was the bathroom mirror. Bigger than average. Four panels. Four Greyson’s. Four images of Roger grabbing Greyson’s face, not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to keep his face looking forward. “Open your eyes! Look at yourself in the mirror! Look at what he did to you! Why are you protecting him? I’m a ******** reporter not a police officer. What the ******** can I do if you tell me? This is what friend’s do Greyson! You may have forgotten how friends act, so let me remind you. Now tell me what Allen does…and what he makes you do! Then you can leave! Then you can get your phone and crawl back to that abusive b*****d and pray after he beats you and rapes you senseless you won’t die.”

Roger could be so cruel to the people he cared about. It was incidents like this that Roger became a detective and not a psychologist.

[U n d r a w n]

C a l e b


Caleb didn’t know and Roger snapped. He screeched out loud and grabbed his cup throwing it right at Caleb. HOLY s**t! He shot his feet out from underneath himself, pushing the chair backwards a little as he cringed. He looked up at Roger with wide-open eyes staring at him like he was a lunatic. It was like the flick of a switch. Screeching just like that. He wanted to know what Allen did. Who he was. He could see Roger’s hands clamped around the table surface. Caleb continued to force himself to look away. For all he knew Roger would throw another cup at him, or worse. Maybe a fist or foot. ”TELL ME WHAT ALLEN DOES!” Echoed through his head. Caleb didn’t speak. He just stood there staring at Roger with a blank face. He stood up and moved over to Caleb, grabing his wrists and pulling hi mup screming about how he needed to see. Really ******** see. See what though? He didn’t need to see anything. He was dragged into bathroom and placed in front of the mirror. Caleb was left staring at himself.

His left face side was bruised up and hurt. HE already knew that though, obviously. His face was stomped on my a shoe and kicked until he went numb. He didnt even cry because of the shock that hit him when he was getting bea tup. His body was thin, although that wasn’t a surprise. He starved himself until the come-downs faded, then he stuffed himself and probably gained 5 pounds at a time. He probably weighted as much as an average girl his age, which was quite frankly much too light for a man his age. 21. He should be at least 3o pounds heavier. The questions Roger asked. Why was he protecting Allen? What did he make him do? Why did he stay? All those questions were easy to Caleb, but impossible to anyone else. He stucked his breath in trying to stop himself form crying(or something equally as embarrassing).

”Allen is the one whjo takes care of me. Without him I’d be dead.” He stated quickly. That wasn’t true. HE knew it. Caleb would obviously be alive without the b*****d constantly raping him. Hell, maybe he’d still even have a relationship with his family! He wanted to turn around and sock Roger in the face just for caring so much. For wanting to listen or know, yet at the same time asking the wrong ways and getting the imformation out wrong. This wasn’ thow it was stupposed to come out, ”And I’m nort protecting him.” He added. It was true. Allen wasn’t the one Caleb was trying to protect. At this point, all Caleb wanted to do was go back to the ‘abusive b*****d’ just so he didn’t have to deal with the questioning, and the

******** I’m way drunk I’ll fininsh this post tomorrow or some s**t. w eshould timehsip with Holden and VAlentine.
VAlentine should wake up to the text: “MEeet me at some blank blank shitty cafe/lunch place this time s**t” and they can meet up then and we can come back to Roger and Cleb agter.

*Goes to pass out*