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 Posted: Tue Jan 09, 2007 7:32 pm
Liar Rating: R for strong violence and some language
Status: Unfinished
Feedback: Pretty please?
Genre: Thriller / Horror
Characters: Mikey Way, OCs
Pairings: N/A
Disclaimer: I don't own Mikey Way, the city of Venice, or the concept of bloody, gory story telling. Capiche?
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Posted: Tue Jan 09, 2007 7:35 pm
Part One Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. As he lay on the hotel bed, legs spread out over the end of the mattress and head resting a few feet from the pillows, Mikey Way began to panic. In the stark stillness of the room, surrounded by the smothering darkness and a silence practically absolute, the beating of his heart sounded far too loud. What if he hears it? Mikey thought, swallowing the lump in his throat. What if he knows I'm here? Even his breathing he tried to keep to a minimum, only stopping every few seconds to take a short, shallow breath as quietly as he could, afraid even the sound of his lungs expanding would betray his presence.
You have the advantage, Mikey tried to tell himself. The element of surprise was on his side. He didn't know where Mikey was, but Mikey knew where he'd be. As Mikey thought this, he ran a nervous hand over the pistol lying on his stomach. He had never fired a gun before and had never thought he would need to. The only things he knew about firearms came from what he'd seen in movies and TV shows. In all honesty, Mikey wasn't even sure he'd be able to hit the blindside of a barn, let alone bring himself to pull the trigger. He just prayed instinct and adrenaline would be enough to take care of that when the moment came.
The bed suddenly creaked beneath him and Mikey nearly screamed. Calming himself back down, he realized the truth: he had never been so paranoid in his life. Not only was the very beating of his heart beginning to terrify him, but even the sound of his own thoughts had started to set him on edge. Every word that passed through his head seemed to thunder through the sickening silence, and as he processed yet another thought, he felt his entire body tense and his breath catch in his throat.
Just take it easy, his logical side begged him. There wasn't much more strain his already frayed nerves could take. Slowly, steadily, he felt himself relax, sinking down into the bedsheets until his breathing had finally resumed.
However, it wasn't long before a light, fragile tapping sound began to resonate from the set of French doors on the other side of the room. The curtains over them were drawn and Mikey couldn't see a thing through them, but as he lay there, his head pressed against the mattress and turned toward the doors, his eyes wide with fear, he plucked up the courage to rise off the bed and make his way over there. As he walked, his lanky, wire-thin legs shook beneath the dead weight of his body. Every other part of his figure trembled as well, and by the time he finally reached the curtains, the hand he reached out to them was shaking like that of a crack addict.
Mikey's shaking fingers closed around the golden cord that held the curtains together, and, taking a deep, silent breath, he undid the bow that held them together and let the tie fall away. Instantly, a narrow gap opened up between the curtains, revealing, to his relief, the image of a dark, rain-drenched street beyond the veranda. He let out a sigh of relief, a portion of his terrified mind finally relieved knowing that at least the sounds of his heart, lungs, and thoughts wouldn't be audible over the storm. He took one last glance out the curtains, surveying Venice's city sidewalks and serene canals three stories below him before once again drawing the curtains tightly together.
Walking back over to the bed, Mikey felt a new fear grip him. However, this fear wasn't so much a physical feeling as a trapped, helpless sort of one. How could he have followed you so far? He thought, dropping back down onto the bed. He still held the pistol in his hand, and as he fell face first onto the bed, he felt the icy cold sensation of the weapon's surface pass through his t-shirt and onto the sweat-soaked skin beneath.
You fled the country, Mikey thought, beginning to shake again. You fled the goddamn country. How is he still doing this? But Mikey knew this wasn't an issue of his motives. He wasn't going to stop until one of them was dead, but that didn't mean Mikey couldn't hide. He'd ran for his life from America, crossing an entire ocean in hopes of escaping him, but it was to no avail. No matter where Mikey tried to hide, he was always a step behind. There was no room for error, there was no time to try and go to the police. If Mikey fell behind, there was no doubt in his mind that death would be only minutes away. It had taken three weeks for Mikey to finally come up with a plan; a way to beat him at his own game. Unfortunately, the plan was probably even more dangerous than hiding.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside severed Mikey's thoughts, causing him to snap to attention. Was this it? Was this him? Mikey had planned everything out perfectly. Even through the fear and the pain and the terror he had managed to think clearly. There was no way this could go wrong. There was no way...
Mikey's brow furrowed. The footsteps in the hallway outside were light; dainty and calm, not heavy and threatening. A woman, not a man, and definitely not him. It wasn't his target. But... there was something wrong... and then suddenly, the footsteps stopped. She couldn't have been more than a few feet from the door to his room.
Heart racing, Mikey got up carefully from the bed, sliding the pistol down partway into his jeans so it was pinned between the skin on the small of his back and the black studded belt around his hips. The grip of the weapon was still above the denim waistline of his pants, ready to be reached for at a moment's notice, yet it remained concealed beneath the edge of his t-shirt. Stealthily, he crossed the room toward the side opposite the windows, his bare feet padding inaudibly over the laminated wood floor. He stopped at the door, then slowly, as if afraid it would bite him, he peered cautiously into the glass peek hole in the wooden surface of the door, a quivering hand still held at the ready over the firearm tucked in the back of his jeans.
A quick survey of the hall revealed a maid in a blue hotel uniform moving down the hall from his left, a stack of starched white towels in her arms. She was mumbling something in Italian as she straightened the stack. She stopped at the door right beside Mikey's, the door to room 417.
Four seventeen, Mikey thought, his body shaking even harder. His skin had become a sickly pallor and the hand he held against the door had turned clammy. Why does it have to be four seventeen?
The hotel worker knocked on the door to the room and shouted something in Italian. Mikey's head whipped around to the digital clock on the side table and read the display. It read 7:54 PM. Before Mikey had even turned back to the peek hole, he heard the door to room 417 open as the maid walked in.
Six minutes. She only has six minutes. Mikey shut his eyes tightly. For the love of God, get out that room now!
It was another two minutes before the cleaning lady had exited the room, and by that time, Mikey was absolutely drenched in sweat. Relief flooded through him when he heard the door close again and saw the Italian woman step out into the hall. The relief was short lived, however, when he saw her begin to make her way over to his door.
Before she got the chance to knock, Mikey slammed the bolt on the side of the door shut, then strung the chain across the gap, then snapped the lock on the doorknob shut. The hotel worker heard this and a confused look crossed her face. Knocking on the door, she called out,
“Ciao?” she called out. “Signore ovvero signora? Ciao?”
Mikey remained silent, backing away from the door. He heard her try to open it, but when she found it locked, he heard her quickly forfeit her attempts. Slowly, her footsteps retreated down the hall until they faded away into the silence. As soon as she'd left, he stepped back across the room to the bed, dropping down onto the sheets with relief. He drew the gun out from the back of his jeans and set it back down onto the bedspread.
By now, the rain outside had gotten a lot heavier, and as he took a deep breath to relax, Mikey barely heard the air fill his lungs. The rain couldn't have been more perfect. Even if he had been quiet before, the storm was enough to convince even his paranoid brain that it was finally safe to calm down. Unfortunately, one glance at the clock was enough to change that.
The faded red numbers on the digital now displayed 7:57 PM. Three more minutes. Three more minutes and he'd be here.
“Come on, you b*****d,” Mikey muttered hoarsely under his breath, “Come and get me.” The rasp in his voice was forgivable, a combination of lack of nourishment and exhaust. He'd barely eaten or slept in twenty-one days, and his normally thin body had been reduced to a decrepit skeleton-of-a-form so wasted away that even his tightest of shirts had become baggy. The eyeliner and kohl he used to plaster onto his face were replaced by dark bags beneath his lids and the chaffed, flaky skin that encircled his eyes. There were scars on his arms, legs, and chest that didn't belong there, wounds that were a result of the uncharacteristic recklessness he'd developed. To him, it didn't even matter anymore whether or not he got hurt; he just wanted to survive.
A noise from the room behind the bed caught Mikey's ears as he lay there and his eyes narrowed. 417. This had to be him. There was no doubt about it. There wouldn't be another maid coming by so soon, and Mikey knew for a fact that no guests were checked into that room. He knew. He had made sure of that.
Mikey felt his heart sink, however, as the footsteps progressed. They were in the room, but once again, they weren't heavy nor threatening. They were a woman's footsteps, but different than that of the hotel worker. While the maid had worn flat soled shoes that thumped lightly on the floor as she walked, the woman in 417 wore heels as he could tell easily by the clicking sound that was made on the wood floor of the room. He heard something fall. A bag? Yes, she had set something down. Then another. Then another. Mikey's eyes widened in horror as a single, three-word sentence tore through his head:
She's a guest.
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Posted: Tue Jan 09, 2007 7:36 pm
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Posted: Tue Jan 09, 2007 7:37 pm
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Posted: Tue Jan 09, 2007 7:38 pm
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Posted: Sat Jan 13, 2007 1:56 pm
I really like this story a lot. This is probably my favorite one. You have major skillz, yo.
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Posted: Tue Jan 16, 2007 12:48 pm
Update please I want to know what happens
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