faye's vehement passion for toxic speeding bullet

Deja vu…?

Strade found himself taped to the chair again, his head felt fuzzy. He could recognize Lawrence standing in front of him. Perhaps, he was going through a dreamception, one that would hopefully end soon as the tape’s glue suffocated him. Unconsciously, he began to rub his hands against the wooden arm rests; heat building up on his wrists’ veins.

“I… I don’t know what to do.” Lawrence began to talk, his hand moving up and down on his arm. He seemed nervous—or doubtful, Strade dared to guess. “There’s something about you.” Lawrence looked at him, their eyes locked. “S…something I can’t” Lawrence looked up to the ceiling and swallowed. “Everyone I met… I wished they’d just… die faster. But you…” His gaze fell onto Strade’s once again, it held some tenderness to it.

“Have you ever heard of soul mates?” The question managed to confuse Strade. It was probably visible as Lawrence carried on: “The idea that there’s someone out there… meant for you.” Although that wasn’t exactly what he wondered about, Strade had figured out long enough that he should let the guy blab. “It’s comforting isn’t it? Someone who’d love you, no matter what?”

Strade raised an eyebrow, visibly disgusted by the implications. How could someone understand him so badly?

“I think it’s a beautiful fantasy, but fantasies aren’t real.” His expression shifted into something grim. “You know it doesn’t work like that, don’t you?” Strade’s expression also changed, wondering if he had shown too much through it. “People are temporary. Just threads passing each other. There’s no force in the world that will hold you close to me.” His monotonous tone didn’t match the disappointment held in his blue eyes and pout. “Now that I met you… I know I need you and I have to hold you close to myself.”

Strade blinked.

“Do you understand?”

Lawrence didn’t wait much for an answer, he reached for something on the table behind Strade.

“Just one last drink.” Lawrence pressed the cup against Strade’s lips. “Although you like them so much.” And then he grabbed his hair, taking his head back. The taste was foul, making him cough. “Shh… It’s okay.” Strade’s vision began to become blurry. “I’ll take care of you.”

Strade’s eyes were shut-closed, for a moment he thought he had died—nothing but numbness on the edge of his limbs. However, a wave of pain like a voltage shock hit him and his eyelids began to flutter. “Oh… Oh no… Don’t move…” His eyes barely adjusted the outline of Lawrence’s shape, there was a strong iron smell and burnt meat. “I’m not… done yet…” Strade’s dizziness almost made him ignore the comment yet, as his eyelids began to weaken, he noticed something lying in front of him. Lawrence’s hand rested on it, like he was caressing it.

There’s a chance that, if he had never inflicted the pain he did, he would’ve rested in ignorance.

Strade’s eyes were now wide open, the effect of Lawrence’s drinks must have drained quickly alongside his blood. He could feel it pumping out of the femoral artery, he whimpered, he tried to move his calf, denying the scene, but he was only greeted by the nauseating sensation of his thigh abruptly moving. There was no doubt that it was detached. Strade’s jaw trembled.

“Shh… sh… It’s okay.” Lawrence gently laid his hand on Strade’s thigh, pushing it towards the floor. Said hand grabbed his jaw and maintained it open, pushing more bitter liquid onto his mouth, forcing it closed so no drops were wasted.

Strade almost choked, he attempted to spit but Lawrence’s grip tightened on his cheeks. After swallowing, he felt his consciousness wither away, all sensations lingering on his leg’s ghost.

After what felt like a second, Strade was back onto his senses. He groaned, his head was looking downwards but the sun shone so diligently through the windows that he still felt it warm on his skin, announcing the morning. The position he was in denied any possibility of being awakened on his bed, he was still caught under this psycho’s (if Strade had any right to think of him like that) mercy. He felt no glue and no wood, just acute pain on his limbs, along some spams. He was probably being stabbed, but the effects of the bitter liquid were still harsh on him. Rare enough, he couldn’t feel Lawrence’s hands on his wrists, holding him still.

Strade groaned.

Almost immediately, Lawrence replied: “It’s all right, it’s all okay.” Strade furrowed his brows, still not opening his eyes. “I fixed our problem.” Huh? What did he mean by that? He tried to grapple the chair’s arm, just feeling some muscles tense in return. The sensation was enough to open his eyes in a dart, his vision rested in his belly’s fold. They slowly moved towards the-

His legs. Strade felt like his heart was going under cardiac arrest, he couldn’t hear the ambient nor his own breathing; maybe the world had stopped in order to give him some time. Where were his legs?! He let out a disheartened scream. “Oh mein Gott” He moved, exasperated, and noticed the cut was above his knee, the strength in his movements depending on his torso. “Oh-” He instinctively took one hand over his head, the other his mouth. However, one of them couldn’t reach where he intended to.

Strade’s blood pressure dropped. His vision turned dark in the corners for a glimpse, staring at the hand- stump near his chin. He closed his trembling “fist”, though he only saw pieces of muscle move under bruised skin. He brought his other stump to his vision, eyes moving from one to the other, then back again to the ones in his legs. Tears crippled onto his eyes. “What the fuck have you done?!” Strade barked. “My- my-”

Lawrence seemed shocked at first, but then his expression soothed. “Now nothing can take you from me.” He said, slowly approaching Strade. Then, Lawrence grabbed the man’s upper stumps, caressing the bruises that extended towards his shoulders with his thumb. Strade hissed. “And I’ll take care of you…”

Those words seemed to ground Strade after the initial impact. His life, its intentions and purposes, flashed in front of him. It started like a drizzle, thinking of the way he would maneuver his tools and the dexterity in his fingertips when connecting wires, vividly remembering the PVC’s sensation and the stinging of a bare wire. The strength and speed needed when hitting the nails to fix some neighbor’s fence and the lemonade glass’ cold going through the fabric of his gloves.

Then, it grew into a rain. All of the cuts on Ren’s skin, the screams of his guests when he buried the drill deep into their flesh and the warmth of a body being lit on fire as he exhaled a cigar. It all haunted him now, the way his fingers went around the knife’s handle, how they caressed the drill’s trigger and how the spark wheel scraped his thumb.

As his teary eyes went from the stumps to Lawrence, he had also realized that he would no longer see people from above.

No longer. That’s when the hard rain bursted. This was nothing like zip ties or tape, not even an eternity within cuffs could compare. Even if he was granted an escape, it served none, for his independence and liberty have forever been stripped for him.