Creepy little Frerard I wrote years ago. Phycho!Frank.
It’s such a long time ago that I was terrible at spelling (you think my dyslexia is bad now; I could barely fucking string letters together back then) and my syntax and diction really needs work. It’s only in hindsight that I realize how shitly this was written; back then I thought I was the shit, honest to God. I was expecting the next Pulitzer to come rolling my way.
I edited it a wee bit; just some major spelling mistakes (still don't know how to spell necce...ness.neceseryFUCKSHIT) and general rapage of the English language. It doesn't have a title reallly. I was thirteen and obviously had no time for such qualms. Let's just give it a TDCC name and have at it, eh?
Warnings: Phycho!Frank and Murderer!Gerard.
1965 (I'm a time-fic whore)
You said you didn’t do it. static No one did quite believe you.
I did, though. At least I pretended to.
Through it all, I believed what you said. I put my faith into you, allowed myself to completely place my trust into you. I never doubted a word that flowed from your mouth or applied a question to your mysterious doings, even when you’d come home with blood on your boots. Or checking between the blinds compulsively when the cop car would drive by. Or reading the newspapers with nervous fervour to check if bodies had been found. Or witnesses had come forward. Or if the police had any leads.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I knew alright. I knew every little goddamn detail. I just pretended to believe your lies. I’d sit there, reading in bed, listening as you’d fall into the apartment after stealing the life of another man, cursing and swearing as you tripped over various things within our tight one-bedroom apartment. You’d walk in with that charming, disarming grin, eyes flirting with an innocent, childlike gleam. It contrasted so greatly with the scarlet smears across your shirt. I remember asking you for the first time.
“Fight, babe,” you answered in an airy, apathetic voice. It didn’t bother you; why should it? You hadn’t done anything wrong. “Some drunks decided to pick a fight. No big deal.”
You must have thought I was stupid, Gerard. Anyone with half a brain could have configured what you were up to; but I guess it was one of those things where you follow your heart and not your brain, like what happens in the movies we went to see when we were teenagers. I blatantly ignored everyone else to favour you and your lies. static Because I loved you.
mewl in background
Can you blame me? We were newlyweds, just up the aisle. That ring on my finger felt so new the fluff from the presentation pillow still ghosted around the metal. I loved and continue to love you so much that my adoration and fierce, fiery personal loyalty overshadowed my common sense.
whimper in background
People said afterwards that you pulled the wool over my eyes. That’s not true at all; I pulled it over my own eyes. The truth was right in front of me and I simply never cared to reach for it. I have this terrible, looming, heavy feeling that had I enquired about something askew you would have split it to me in a minute. You looked ready to burst, like the confessional was about to leap from your tongue like a body from a cliff.
I pretended to be shocked when the cops came to our door, asking me if you were home and questioning me on your recent static whereabouts. I was the perfect innocent spouse; we looked the perfect couple. Young, fresh-faced, both with steady careers and a relatively low mortgage. They assured me it was standard interrogation when a local was murdered; just routine, completely necesery.
Lornaigh, your spelling makes me want to vomit up a dictionary
I saw how nervous you got when I told you the authorities had dropped by. I saw that glimmer pass by your face in a moment’s glance; it was so quick that it creased into a smile as rapidly as it had appeared. But I saw it. You knew then, you knew you had been caught out. They were suspicious of you. It wasn’t standard procedure, of course it wasn’t. They knew every single fucking move you’d made since this little killing spree had started.
They knew that after your shift ended sometime in the evening, you’d slope to the back of the building and have a well-earned smoke. After all, this was horrid nine-to-five, nose-to-the-grindstone work that deserved a suitable treat at the close of the day. You’d hang around for a while, observing the industrial New York surroundings before slipping on a black coat and one of those old-fashioned wide-brimmed hats and then casually camoflauge into the darkness. Watching. Stalking. Waiting.
Waiting for someone to drift by.
They say most serial killers go for a type; male, female, Caucasian, African-American, of a certain social class, of a certain age group. You went for anyone and everyone; that included a young single mother, a middle aged prosperous businessman, an elderly woman on the way home from Sunday services. Your killings were random and brutal; just like the way in which they were carried out; blunt force trauma to the head. I think you did it that way so you could see the flash of worry, the flutter of fear, the strike of vulnerability in their eyes as they convulsed in your arms. As they squirmed and eventually quietened in your arms.
soft, muffled cry in background
That same facial expression you acquired when I told you about the police. I saw it, baby. I saw how scared you were.
something is said in background; inaudible
You caved. Of course you did; you realized that after terrorizing New York’s middle-class suburban streets for over six months you could hardly hide it from your husband. You confessed it all, from the very first taste of killing and how you acquired an insatiable taste for the bloodrush of killing. You didn’t even realize how much attention had been drawn to the so-called ‘Manhattan Bludgeoner’…you had lost control. Let the reigns slip from your calloused grip, as it were.
I held you in my arms and we talked for the entire night; I don’t think we even considered sleeping, eating or bathroom breaks. You no longer saw yourself as Gerard, a faithful husband and an acclaimed artist but a serial killer. You were so upset and frightened about what they were going to do to you. You apologised repeatedly and sincerely for never telling me. I just nodded away in that unassuming way. I’ve learned to master it, really.
high-pitched, slightly hysteric laughter
I couldn’t leave you so helpless like that; of course I had to help you. I couldn’t have you going to jail and being sat in some electric chair so that they could glorify frying you to death…I had to do something. You know I’m just a sucker for you, baby, and if you were gonna go down in the slammer then I was too. I had pretended to dumb along for what seemed like an age, I had been in the dark and now I wanted to be enlightened.
So…naturally, of course, when the police arrived at the door for a second time I was slightly peeved. It all….my my, it just happened so quickly that I don’t really remember. They were at the door, admiring our rose bushes and then…suddenly…they were just dead, honey. You came in the door, on the rare occasion that you hadn’t taken someone out, and stared at me. I was standing there with a meat cleaver in my hands, and those nasty policemen were lying in pools of blood.
30 second pause; pacing footsteps audible
The court called me senseless; they called you merciless. The press certainly were less than sensitive-they branded us a killing couple, a disgusting pair of human beings that were destined to die for the misdeeds they had committed. I resented that really...you were a serial killer, Gerard. You set out to do this thing. I never intended; those goddamn cops were just getting all up in my business. Our business. Our private business.
I stuck by your side. I'd smile at the lawyers in that sick, demented way when they asked me direct questions, ever evasive and sly. Shrugging was my new favourite defence. I sat in that goddamn cell for seventy two hours, Gerard. They beat me up and tried to blackmail me; didn't I want to be able to visit my husband in the slammer? I smirked.
I didn't want to visit you. I'd be the one celling with you. I'd end my days with you, I'd die with you by my side.
But you didn't quite get that, did you now, baby? Snokums? Sugarplum? Goddamn your brittle little soul to hell. You little fucking snitch. You rat. I thought we were in this together? You broke after like three days. You started sobbing, screaming I made you do it, I was the one who was fucked up, I needed to be locked up with no key. I was evil all of a sudden. It was so fucking easy for you, you weak little slut. So fucking easy for you to abandon the person you'd loved just to get off a few years from the stockade, wasn't it?
crying in background becomes louder and higher in pitch
"I...I didn't m-mean it, Fr-Frankie..."
Don't give me that bullshit, you little sonuvabitch. I thought we'd be together forever. Till the end of time, until our hearts stopped beating. I wanted to die with you, to rot with you, for my bones to decompose with yours and we'd be the ultimate lovers in life and in death...But alas, no. It wasn't meant to be, huh, sugar? Babykins? My little gumdrop? Goody-good Gerard ended up getting fifteen years in Rikers (with probation and parole, you shit) and big bad old Frankie got thrown in a mental asylum for crazy people.
"Frankie...honey...I...I love y-"
DON'T SAY THAT! DON'T YOU DARE SAY THAT, YOU SNIVELLING LITTLE CUNT, HOW DARE YOU-I DIDN'T FUCKING BREAK OUTTA THERE AND INTO THIS SHITHOLE TO HEAR YOUR PATHETIC LIES-
yelling is heard outside; guards running towards cell
Sonuvabitch...better do this shit.
gunshot; loud thudding noise
See you in hell, baby.