Work Text:
For the love of God. And his son, Jesus. And that guy’s mom, Mary. Or whatever people believe in now. Point is, well, actually, you probably get the point. And you probably also think that that’s a vulgar way to start any kind of story, or video recording, or diary entry—I can’t keep track of how many forms of ways I’ve told this crazy son of a bitch’s confession. And not one of them can I actually turn into the cops because I don’t have a single piece of evidence to prove that anything he said was real. That he is real.
What the fuck? What the funkily fuck? What in the fuckity fuck of a fucking group of people? Scene build: I’m dying of severe pneumonia, crawling and clawing at God knows what in the payphone booth. I was starting to lose feeling in everything, when I fall and hit my head, and the next thing I know, there’s blood. Great. Just what I needed; a near death experience to finally give me a reality check that my living circumstances were the most treacherous and borderline suicidal ones I’ve ever put myself through. And you know which knight in shining armor comes to rescue me? Henry fucking Winter. Goodness me, the chivalry is just too overwhelming. I’m getting a little hot and bothered here… (get it, because my insides are freezing up and shit). Good times.
He takes me to the hospital, and never leaves my side for days on end. Hell, he even fought my battles. When the nurse was trying to kill me or whatever by stabbing me multiple times with an IV needle, and I was too high on whatever they were giving me to give a damn, he totally dragged her ass. He just sat there, tearing through his little books, acting all pretty-boy-handsome and literary, getting me things like he was my boyfriend. Even though I was bedridden, he never left my side. You know, some pregnant women don’t even get that kind of treatment from their husbands. Crazy, right?
Anyway, so after the whole hospital visit, I’m at his place, with a heating system and pipes that work. And he’s a fine roommate. We don’t chat all that much really. Except for one night, where I overhear a few things from him and Francis’s conversation, and that’s when things get suspicious. I start to keep tabs on him. Bunny starts asking me weird shit, but he dodges an explanation every time and it bugs the crap outta me. But never, did I ever think I was going to find out what Henry was hiding through this next sequence of events.
I left my book at his place on accident and I need it for the next day. Big deal, I use his car to drive back and grab it. His apartment’s a mess, but he’s the cleanest guy I know. Next to the phone, there’s a piece of paper, and scribbled on it are a phone number and some weird details. I ring up the line, pretend I’m Henry—hey, I was left in the dark for way too long, okay?—and the person on the other line tells me, “Henry,” that I have four one-way tickets to Buenos Aires, Argentina. And so I’m thinking to myself, after aaaaaaaall of this shit, they all wanna travel out of the country and leave me without telling me jack beforehand? Oh, and the tickets were expensive as hell too. “Two thousand dollars isn’t a lotta money” my ass.
So at this point, I know something’s up. These guys have been pretty good friends of mine, if not more on Camilla’s behalf (rizz game?). They would’ve told me if they were planning on leaving, just like they always did. Especially if it were out of the country on such a short notice. And why would a group of college students want to flee the country on such short notice? I’ll give you a second to figure it out like Dora the Explorer.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It’s because they fucking murdered someone.
So eventually, I piece it together. And if you thought that was bad, that wasn’t even the confession. I’ve only covered what I knew from the start. Now onto the culty stuff.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I think Julian is a good teacher. I mean, if you’re a normal student taking his philosophy and thinking about it, because it’s all hypothetical and inevitably unachievable, he's great. But when you’re insane and have a boatload of money and are a bunch of horny gay college kids, I mean, I guess you can make that stuff real.
So Mr. Winter and Francis both explain to me in full detail how their cult-ritual-orgy-hybrid played out. Every. Last. Detail. They got wildly drunk, ran around in fake chitons made from dusty bedsheets with their strange sacrifices and dim lights, and eventually made their way to some rando’s farm in the middle of nowhere. Henry punches the farmer in the face. Mind you, he took on the strongest guys at school and won without breaking a sweat. So, when a guy who’s so drunk he doesn’t know what hole to stick it in meets a rando on the street minding his own business, it isn’t pretty. Fist meets face, guy’s dead. Everyone has blood and guts and mud all over them. And they’ve gotta shower it off.
Where do they go? Francis's place. But who ends up dead in their tracks? Bunny Corcoran. Good Lord. They’re telling him to stop screaming because they didn’t know he was chilling there, and he’s trying not to shit himself, and they’re just rinsing off their bloody asses in the showers at 3am like this is routine.
I am infinitely sorry for what Bunny had to witness that day. I think the guy’s just a touch too misogynistic and internally homophobic for my liking, but goodness gracious. This man saw the four of them at three in the morning, half naked, covered in blood and guts. If it were me, that would have been the exact moment in which I got the gun from my safe, pointed it at all of them, slowly backed out the house and bolted away at full speed.
Henry then goes on to explain how much money he’s lost due to keeping Bunny from squealing (boo-hoo that’s honestly your own fault you dumbass). He's telling me that Bunny found out about the whole ordeal because he picked up and snooped through Henry’s diary, got a translator because Henry’s crazy ass wrote only in LATIN (average cult leader activity, respectfully) and got to work.
And so now, Bunny knows, I know, and I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do about it. And I’m pretty sure none of them do either. I’ve got no evidence. I’m just some John from California. Why the hell did I get sucked into this mess?!
Honestly, the worst part about it, (well, the second worst part, because the first worst by far has to be the death*) is that Henry saving my life was the most kind and humane thing anyone’s ever done for me. You know, if he wasn’t doing this to meet Dionysus through some post nut clarity.
I don’t know man, he tried explaining it to me, and I think it was supposed to be some kind of exchange. That if he was nice to someone like me, his good, innocent friend, it would make up some of the guilt from committing second-degree murder. But personally, as the victim, I’m feeling very betrayed by all of this. And no pretty privilege can save him from this. I've been passionately mindfucked beyond all orgasm.