the tortured poets department.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

He wouldn’t outright say it.

Wouldn’t admit he might be making a big mistake- you believe he is confident in his choice.

That he could win the long walk. You didn’t doubt him, you know what he’s capable of.

He’s sharp, thought out, born and trained for this very day and moment.

But the risk, the odds. One wrong step and suddenly you’re far more aware of the blood pumping in your veins, especially when it’s pouring out of open wounds that are no doubt becoming infected. You keep going, keep walking. It’s not worth the risk. The odds are slim to none, and every day closer feels like another step already taken.

It feels like knowing you’re gonna wake up with a gun to your head and still setting an alarm.

There is no talking sense into Billy Stebbins. He believes he is the plan. That the math favors him.

You never know. That’s what you keep saying to him. Is it worth the risk?

To him, yes. To you? No. Not even close.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The clock moved in an unfair reminder that no matter how much you want, it doesn’t slow.

He’s asleep. You haven’t taken your eyes off him. His confidence doesn’t make you feel better when every time you close your eyes you see a bullet wound in his head, body limp and bleeding out on a road, the big plan failed. You imagine the cockiness leaving his body in red, pooling on the street, dried there even when the body is gone.

4:34 am. April 24th. The time is coming, and no matter how much you plead with him, it changes nothing. He’ll leave in a week.

Your head on the pillow, just watching him. You zone out looking at him until light creeps through the curtains. He wakes soon after, moving to his side and looking at you.

“You didn’t sleep. Again.”

It’s not a question, just an observation. You don't reply for a moment and then reach a hand over, fixing his messed up hair with it.

“Mornin’.”

Is all you can get out at the moment, moving slightly closer, barely noticeable.

He doesn’t reject the touch, his eyes close for a moment and then open again.

“You’ll feel worse if you keep doing that.” he replies, not unkind, but direct.

As if this is a problem you can make go away, but it’s not. Not while knowing that in a short time he’ll be signing his own death certificate with a steady hand.

You don’t bother with a reply, eyes locked on him like he’ll evaporate without trace— to be yet another tale people pity the second you let yourself look away.

A thought crosses your mind for a brief moment— distantly and stupidly, if radio towers make deals with the wind.

They stand there long enough, tall and unmoving, insisting on their purpose; eventually the wind will work around them instead of knocking them down.

It feels like a curse to know Billy is like that.

Sharp angles and certainty, built to transmit a signal he believes will be heard. He thinks if he keeps walking, one foot after another, if he just keeps standing, if he just proves the math he’s been silently adding up for years is perfect, then the world will accommodate him. The wind will calm for long enough for him to steady his footing.

You’re not so sure the wind cares.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The week doesn’t arrive all at once. It’s slow and painful, like a flesh wound going untreated.

It doesn’t look like much at first. Something small, easy enough to ignore. The days pass the way they always have—morning light through the same window, the same roads, the same quiet routines. But underneath it all, something is wrong.

You can feel it working its way deeper.

By the time the day comes, it’s too late to pretend it’s not raw; too long without proper care.

He’s ready— the mechanical rabbit doesn’t falter. Laced shoes, steady hands, that same certainty in his posture, it feels all too much like he still doesn’t see that he’s flesh and blood—and flesh can be cut far too easily.

But it’s all you can see, all you can think about as he begins toward the starting point, and you tell yourself you won’t do it. You tell yourself you’ll stand there and let him go.

You don’t.

You have to physically stop yourself from reaching for him—and then you do it anyway. Your hand closes around his arm and you tug him back, press yourself against him, wrap your arms around the back of his neck like you can anchor him against you.

“I’m sorry,” slips out before you can stop it, and you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. You only know you’re holding on harder now, like if you don’t let go, the wound won’t have time to fester.

You know he can take care of himself.

Still, you’re painfully aware of how cruel this world is—especially the one inside the Walk that’s waiting for him.

He stills under your grip, then lifts a hand to your wrist, not to pull you away, just a painful acknowledgment.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he finally replies, softer than you're used to with him. and then calculated. “This is what I’m meant to do.”

You pull back only to kiss him, just in case it’s the last chance you'll ever get.

“I love you.”

You mutter it, the words edged with something close to bitterness, and then you let go.

“…Do what you have to.” It’s the best he’s going to get from you. All you can give. You’re against this, you always have been—but it was never yours to decide. And it isn’t yours to take from him.

You don’t move as he walks off, and it takes a minute before you can turn and make your way back to the car, wondering how you aren’t crying yet.

The thought hits you again, stupid and untimely—of radio towers,

The thought was simple.

You would leave after he would go to work- to the farm, to that same house where blood was spilled, where it has been spilled for years. To only your recent knowledge.

The town is miles up from the farmhouse where rumors run rampant and whispers about the people who live there are always followed up by some sort of, “But I'm sure it’s just a scary story. Ain’t no way those folks are that bad. That Johnny boy, he’s trouble, but he ain’t a killer.” You'd heard them. It was more than some random gossipers; no one trusted them, not really. But despite all of it, what did they do besides run their mouths?

Nothing. Cowards, you thought, but the thought died quickly when you recalled the body of that man hitting the grass, how blood poured from his neck and stained Johnny’s hands, and you felt like a coward too. You still sleep next to that man. The pity dies as quickly as it starts; this does nothing. No use crying over spilled milk- or blood.

Neither do the fantasies of leaving, of running. You’d been plotting it for weeks.

Like a bird left in a cage accidentally unlocked, you’d make your escape to never be found by him again. To be free of his clutches. It’s a dream, maybe a nightmare, and you have it recurrently at this point. Maybe it’s because you’re scared. He sleeps with that knife on the nightstand within arm's reach, the sharp weapon you saw cut into the flesh of a man, one who begged for mercy, only to receive the dark end that is Johnny Slaughter. Will that be your end? The more you question it, the more it doesn't matter. You can’t leave anyway; where would you go?

It’s wishful thinking. Stupid thinking.

He hasn’t done anything to you. He comes to your apartment late at night, knocking like he owns the place- like he knows you’d never leave him out there. And you never have.

You open the door every time, breath hitching at the blood on his face, the metal smell pooling around him like he’s proud of it; you don’t even know if you should ask. To him, now that you know all of who he is, why should he bother hiding it? You’re not going to leave. He’s not worried about it. He’s cocky, but that’s nothing you haven’t known. That’s simply who he is. It used to be attractive until you saw how far it’s engraved into him; he’s cocky enough to kill. You hate how he’s still pretty, still charming.

So instead, your mind races at what’s happened. Another bar fight? Another victim? What did he do this time… Sometimes you pry. Most of the time, however, you’re simply his accomplice. Pulling him in like he’s the one who needed help and not the person probably on a meat hook right now, their life force leaving them like a cruel joke- one he probably thinks is funny, but that’s if he even left them alive.

Or maybe some poor, mouthy idiot lying in an alley near a bar, barely conscious and trying to figure out where he even is after pissing Johnny off, which, to be fair, you think, isn’t that hard. In the back of your mind, though, you wonder how the male ego pushes them so far into thinking they can actually fight him. Not a great idea.

You grab his hand to bring him to the bathroom, quickly closing and locking the front door like you’re scared the police will show up at any given second to take him from you. You leave the bathroom door open for extra light; the hallway light has been on anyway. You fumble, trying to get things together quickly with shaking but determined hands, pressing an old small towel under the faucet, wetting it as you try to wipe the blood coming down his eyebrow. You can’t really tell where the cut is yet, but you watch him rub some of it out of his eye with an annoyed grunt, mumbling about how this was the best they could do. You don’t reply, wiping his face down with a gentleness unworthy of a man like Johnny Slaughter, but you don’t care. You didn’t ask if he was worthy of anything you gave him.

You love him. He can be sweet in his own way when he wants. Thinking about being with anyone else feels wrong; you don’t want them. You want him. It’s not like you don’t have options; you just don’t care about them. (He'd probably get rid of them anyway... He doesn’t like to share.)

So instead, you don’t run, you don’t leave. You check the wound with concern, muttering to him in the quiet of the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” It's soft. Worried. And he quirks that eyebrow up but quickly regrets it when it aches, and you press down on it with the rag, pulling things out from the cupboard to try and take care of it. You can’t just watch him bleed; you don’t have it in you.

“It’s a stupid cut. Ain’t gonna kill me,” he retorts, sarcasm heavy. You sigh, pressing a hand into the side of his neck.

“Johnny.”

“...” He just stares, blinking down at you, unrelenting.

There is no one to protect you from Johnny Slaughter. So you stick close and wait for sunrise.

You know he’ll be back every time he exits that front door. Every time you wake up, he’s not there. He’ll come back.

He always does.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The next morning you’re picking up some groceries, putting things into the cart, and walking around when you see a newspaper. Normally you really don't care, but the photo catches your eye. You know that man from somewhere. You blink at it, and then it hits you. No way. No possible way- you pick it up, reading it.

“Georgetown native gone missing, Leland Mckinney, age 18, was last seen with friends Connie Taylor, Julie Crawford, and sister of also missing girl Maria Flores, Ana Flores. Maria was last seen 2 months ago near the town of Newt, Texas. Her vehicle was found abandoned. Her sister Ana, now missing alongside her sister and friends, has all gone missing, leaving many confused; the search continues for them with no leads. If you have seen any of them, please contact the police immediately.”

Leland. Leland? That was his name. The man. He had friends. You’re confident they’re also in that basement- if there’s anything left of the corpses. You put it down and go to check out. Mind now foggy, you never wanted to know his name. Never wanted to admit he was real. That he has people looking for him. People who think he’s still alive. You pay for your items and leave.

Confused and conflicted about how things got so serious so fast, so scary so quickly.

You know you could tell the authorities and that with Johnny’s reputation and record of violent crimes, it would be an easy pin and arrest, but no. It’s almost concerning how fast the thought makes you sick, how you’d rather let the body rot at the bottom of that basement than tell on him.

You learned early that some things are meant to stay buried, that some things are better underground. And Johnny is one of them. The day he dies, people will breathe a sigh of relief, and the chatter will evolve to, “Is it shocking? A man like that had it coming; it was only a matter of time before he got himself killed.”

And they’re probably right. But it won’t be because of you.

You’ve already decided what kind of sin this is, and it isn’t betrayal.

This is the price of keeping his crimes buried.

This is the cost of loving something that should never see daylight again.

Johnny Slaughter is a lot of things. But a murderer, a killer? Couldn’t be, you thought. Sure, he had a bit of a mean streak, and got into a few bar fights in the time you’ve known him- in the time you’ve been in love with him.

Johnny Slaughter is a lot of things. And a killer is one of them. You found that out the hard way. That the sharp hunter's knife he carries on his belt wasn’t just for show. That it wasn’t just for what he claimed his job was- in all honesty, you’re not even sure. You know he does odd jobs, fixes cars sometimes, that he works on his mother's farm, probably leading lambs to the slaughter, that same knife you’ve never seen unsheathed cutting into the throat of innocent animals.

But that’s the way of life, that’s the food chain. Although the thought made you a bit queasy, it’s not like you’re innocent. The killers wouldn’t have the profit to continue without the people who pay for the meat, serve it to their families and add salt. As meat loves salt, you love Johnny Slaughter. But you’ve come to know the man under the cocky smiles and rough hands guiding your hips, the hand in your hair and the kisses on your throat.

You’ve come to realize that it isn’t just a few bar fights when he has some adrenaline and needs to let off some steam, and now you know. You know that he enjoys the blood. The fight. Watching the light drain from his victims' eyes, and when they finally go quiet, no longer choking on the blood gurgling in their throat. He watches. And then he lets them drop.

Johnny Slaughter is not a good man.  But unfortunately for you, He’s sunk his teeth into you. And he’s not letting go.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

It was a blistering day in the Texas heat, letting out an irritated sigh in the passenger seat of Johnny's truck. He should have been back by now. You're parked outside his family's farmhouse, he said he needed to take care of something before you went down to your place to drink with him, make dinner and have some alone time. But he’s taking forever, far too long for it to go unquestioned. You’re getting irritated. What the hell is he taking fifteen plus minutes to do? Why did he leave you in the hot car if he was going to take eight years?

Whatever. You run a hand through your hair, considering if you should go look for him, when something makes you flinch. A scream. Not well concealed, the “HELP, PLEASE HELP ME!” echoes through the large property; it sounds like a man, a younger man. You can’t fully tell, you look out the rolled-down driver's window, and see it. He’s pretty tall, about the same height as Johnny, you think. Neck length brown hair, blue shirt, blue jeans. But in reality, that shirt isn’t so blue at that point. There’s red streaming down it, staining it. Blood. Is this a prank? No, Johnny wouldn’t do that. Who is that?

He’s coughing, blood pouring out of his mouth like a slasher film, he’s barely able to keep his pace, keeling over and gasping for air. He’s running through the grass, onto the road, up the driveway. Towards the truck. Towards you.

You hear a man's voice, taunting. Irritated. Johnny. He chases him, “Come back here, stop bein’ difficult.” 

Grabbing him by the hair, he tugs him away before he can even make it to the truck, and slits his throat. Your eyes widen, a hand going to your mouth, you’re shaking, confused, scared. What the fuck just happened? Your hand drops from your mouth in favor of pushing the truck door open, jumping out to back away in shock as Johnny stalks towards you, taking his black gloves off.

“Darlin’, where do you think you’re runnin’ off to? Hm?”

His gaze is sharp, like he’s annoyed that you would even think getting away is a possibility.

“Get back in the truck before I make you. Do you really wanna see me angry, sweetheart?”

The affectionate word would have made your knees feel weak any other time, but you can hear the taunt in it. The dare. You let out a shaky breath, hand clenching around the hem of your shirt.

“What… what the fuck just happened?” is all you manage to breathe out, head spinning, eyes going from the man you spend your days and nights with, your boyfriend, who is covered in the blood of the man, clearly now dead, limp on the gravel, stained with the puddle of red.

Johnny chuckles like you just said something funny and keeps walking around the truck and stops when he's right in front of you, looking down at your smaller frame. He’s a huge man, built like a fucking wall- it had always turned you on to a certain degree, and now it becomes an ever so present issue. The knife is back in its holster, but his hands are just as effective. But he doesn’t hurt you, no. He reaches a hand to your hair with faux sympathy, brushing it out of your face before he grabs at your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Nothin’ you need to worry that pretty little head about. Get in the truck.”

… And you do. He opens the door for you, and you slowly get into the passenger seat, staring forward. He kisses your head, hand gripping your jaw in a show of dominance. You’re not getting away from him.

“Atta girl. I’ll be right back. You stay right here now.”

And he shuts the door for you, using his key to lock the truck. He slips it back into his jeans pocket, walking over to the body. He grabs the man and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes with an annoyed grunt. You sink into your seat as he carries the body back to the farm like it’s a casual friday afternoon; just an annoying chore rather than a life he just took mercilessly.

You consider your options, you could jump out the open window, make a run for it, but he would find you eventually. He knows where you live. Besides, the farm is in the middle of nowhere; you’d be walking for miles before you found any sort of person or help. You’re not dressed for it either; you’d end up sunburnt with blistered feet. No way. So you sit. And you wait.

He returns 20 minutes later, clean of the spilled blood and with a new shirt, only this time you’re not prepared to complain about how long he was gone. You just stay still, quiet. He gets into the driver's seat, closing the door with a thud. He starts the truck, right hand coming to your knee.

“What’re you so silent for?”

He asks like he didn’t just slice a man's throat, letting go of your knee to pull a pack of Marlboro reds out of his pocket, he takes a cigarette out, puts it in his mouth, shoves the pack back into the denim and taking the lighter out of the cupholder with the cigarette still hanging from his lips, and he lights it. He takes a lazy drag, putting the lighter back in the cupholder. He puts it between his lips with two fingers, lazily gripping the steering wheel with the other while he starts to pull out of the driveway.

You take a second, still not sure what to do, when he speaks up again, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

“You ignorin’ me now, huh? Cut that shit out.”

With a shaky, silent breath, you do. “You killed him.”

He snorts, letting out a puff of smoke out the open window

“And what about it? You don’t come onto someone else's property and think nothin’s gonna happen. His own damn fault. He and his stupid friends, look where it got em."

“... have you done that before?” a quiet, fearful question, unable to tell if you’re scared of being next or just scared that you’ve been sleeping next to a killer. Probably both.

“I do what I have to do. Like I already said, don’t worry that pretty head about it. You’re not gonna like the answer. It’s just how it is.”

With quiet and still fearful defeat, you look out the window, the smell of cigarettes making you feel even more lightheaded than you already were; him being a chronic smoker is now the least of your worries.

He drives in silence for a minute, with you just staring out the window, the rush of wind from the open car window giving you the much-needed air as he finally finishes the cigarette. What felt like hours was only maybe 3 minutes. He snuffs it out, and throws it out the window, glancing over at you. He sighs in irritation, his hand coming to rest on your thigh this time.

“You gonna be good for me?”

There’s no silver lining on a fucking disaster. But you’re not gonna leave him, he wouldn’t let you anyway. You want to live, you’re almost done with college, have a decent apartment, an attractive boyfriend.. Nothing has to change. You won’t let it, you can’t let it. So you nod.

“... it’s you and me?” you quietly say, looking over at him. He grins like a devil.

“You and me. There’s my girl.”

And that’s what you are, Johnny Slaughter’s girl. And now his willing accomplice. Wouldn’t want the pretty boy going to jail… So you lean over, kiss his cheek, and slump back into the passenger seat. He rubs your thigh, meant to be affectionate, you think, but everything about Johnny is rough, his hands, his tone, his attitude. You chose this, you chose him. And this is how it is, the cycle of life, the food chain, the weak get killed, lambs to the slaughter. And the predators thrive.

You’ll stay close to the predator to keep yourself alive.