Page 9 of Psycho Killers

The relentless beeping of the machines reverberates down the hallway, a symphony that assaults my senses, pushing me to the fucking edge of sanity. The silence in Ash's small room is the complete opposite. I can't even hear the machines he's hooked up to beeping. I'm consumed by a suffocating stillness that leaves me breathless and trapped.

I hold his hand, squeezing it gently from time to time, searching for the faintest response. There is none. He lies motionless, the machine helping him breathe, and with each passing day of unchanging stillness, my hope dwindles—dwindles fucking rapidly.

I hope for his awakening and for his recovery. But luck has never been my fucking friend. It never was, and likely never will be. So I pray, not to a specific God, but to something larger than myself—a higher power.

As a child, violently robbed of my innocence and thrust into a dark world I didn't understand, I never prayed. I believed a God—if one existed—would intervene and would stop the horrors inflicted on me and my friends

He didn't. No one fucking did.

If God couldn't protect us boys from the monsters we called our fathers, then perhaps fucking God didn't exist. The suffering of children was incomprehensible to me, a vivid contradiction to the idea of a 'benevolent God'.

But for Ash, I break down and I fucking pray. I plead for help—for a fucking miracle. Yet, the echo of my childhood helplessness returns; the absence of intervention then mirrors the silence now. And it's fucking heartbreaking. It just goes to show the only one you can count on in this fucked-up world is yourself.

"Ash," I whisper, my voice thick with despair, knowing he probably can't even hear. "Please wake the fuck up. Come back, brother.We fucking need you."I squeeze his hand, resting my forehead against his arm, the weight of my despair pressing down.

The cool, sterile scent of antiseptic stings my nostrils, a constant reminder of this sterile, hopeless place. The rhythmic pulse of the machines, a relentless metronome counting down to something I don't want to know, continues to hammer against my skull. Each beep is a tiny blow, chipping away at the fragile remnants of my sanity. The continued silence in Ash's room, however, is a different kind of torture. It's a suffocating blanket, smothering me, stealing my breath. It's the silence of absence, the silence of death waiting in the wings.

My days have bled into nights, marked only by the shifting shadows and the ever-present beeping. I haven't slept properly in what feels like fucking forever. My eyes are red and raw, burning, my fucking body aches with a weariness that goes way beyond physical exhaustion. It's the weariness of a fucking soulstretched thin, frayed at the edges, clinging desperately to a hope that feels increasingly fucking fragile.

I trace the lines of his hand, his skin cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. It's a ghost of the warmth I remember—a phantom touch that mocks my longing.

I whisper to him again, my voice a broken rasp, "Please, Ash…just…fucking breathe."

The words hang in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the suffocating silence. The memories claw at me, sharp and brutal. The faces of the other boys, their haunted eyes mirroring my own pain. The echoing screams, the chilling silence that always followed. The betrayal of innocence, the crushing weight of a world that offered no solace, no escape. And the gnawing question: Why? Why did it fucking happen to us? Why does it fucking feel like it's happening again?

I squeeze his hand tighter, my knuckles white. The prayer—the desperate plea—is a silent scream trapped in my throat. Not to a God who abandoned us, but to the universe, to fate, to fucking anything that might hear my desperate cry.

Bring him back. Please. Just… fucking bring him back. Because if Ash doesn't wake up, shit... I don't know what I'll do. I don't know if I can face this fucked-up world without him. A world that already took so damn much. A fucking world that feels… empty. Utterly, devastatingly, fucking empty.

The sterile scent of antiseptic is permanently etched into my memory, a constant reminder of this purgatory. I exist in a haze of exhaustion, fueled by grief and the desperate hope that flickers like a dying ember. I talk to him constantly, sometimes whispering stories of our childhood, of the laughter and the games we played before the world stole our innocence. Other times, I just sit in silence, holding his hand, feeling the coolness of his skin, the absence of his warmth a chilling reminder of what I've lost.

The doctors always come and go, their faces impassive, their words carefully chosen, offering little comfort. Their pronouncements are usually delivered with a detached professionalism that feels like a further betrayal—a cold indifference to the agony tearing me apart. They speak of possibilities, of probabilities, of slim chances, but their words are hollow, devoid of the empathy I crave. They don't fucking understand. They can't understand. They haven't lived through the fucking darkness that has consumed us, that has stolen our innocence, and now threatens to steal our friend.

Suddenly, as I'm about to leave for the night, the beeping changes. It becomes erratic, frantic, a desperate plea mirroring mine. My heart leaps into my throat, a frantic prisoner trapped in a cell. I call out for a nurse, my voice raw with a mixture of terror and hope. The rush of activity that follows is a blur of white coats and hushed whispers. I zone out as they work on Ash; their movements precise and efficient, but their faces betray a grim determination that chills me to the bone.

"I'm sorry, son," the doctor says, pulling off his latex gloves as the nurses begin removing the paddles and cleaning up their mess.

Then,silence.

A silence different from the suffocating quiet of the past weeks. This silence is heavy, laden with a finality that crushes the last strings of my hope. The machines fall silent. The rhythmic beeping, the constant companion of my despair, is gone. Only the chilling emptiness remains. I sit beside Ash, his hand cold and lifeless in mine, the weight of the world pressing down on me, crushing me beneath its unbearable burden. The world, already so empty, has become a void, a fucking black hole sucking away the last remnants of my soul. And in the silence, I finally understand. The only one who could save him was me, and I failed.

By some fucking miracle, the machines begin their normal beeping out of nowhere. Ash's hand twitches while still grasped in mine, and I smile, welcoming the tears as they fall down my cheeks. The doctor—stunned and confused—puts on a new pair of gloves and begins to check Ash; the nurses too stunned to move.

He's alive. He might not be here physically, but he's here spiritually. And I keep smiling, grateful that someone must have heard my prayers.

"I'm sorry, Dominic, but visiting hours are over. Plus, I need to run some tests on Ash and make sure he's conformable," the doctor says, shaking my hand as I stand up, still half in a daze.

"Please call me if anything changes," I beg him, and like every other time I've asked, he nods, pulling his mask down to show me his smile.

"I will. Now go home and get some rest."

I laugh as I walk out of the room, hands in my pockets already knowing where I'm going. And it isn't home.

The vibrant neonglow pulses in my vision, the throbbing bass vibrating through the very ground as I approach the underground to watch the race. Finding a parking space proves impossible; the crowd tonight is immense. Unable to find a spot, I pull into the driver's line, deciding to race after all.

The air hits me in a suffocating wave: the strong, delicious smell of burning cannabis, overwhelming perfume, and the relentless rain. As I step from the car, the pressure mounts, the crowd closing in. I've raced a few times since the accident,feeling fine each time. But tonight feels different. Anxiety claws at me, panic threatening to overwhelm. Yet, the moment I see Calista, the tension eases.

My gaze locks onto her, granting her my complete focus. But then I see Five beside her, handing out race numbers, and the relief crumbles. I want to turn and flee, to roar away from this place like a demon unleashed from hell. But she sees me first, her smile bright, beckoning me closer.

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