Chapter Text
“…a few clouds in the sky and light raindrops…”
Pete sighed and put down his coffee on the table, standing up. He walked toward the vintage radio his grandma used to own and turned the volume to mute. “Fuck off.” He brushed his hand against the table where his keys usually were, but nothing. After rolling his eyes, he looked around for them. Not very funny, it was 4:36 AM. Having a morning job from 5 to 12 in a cafe was exhausting, not to mention the additional evening job at the club as a bartender.
He finally spotted what he was looking for at the other side of the room, which was weird since he never put his keys in that place. He is a quite organized person and for now, lived alone. It is hard to believe when his mom’s stuff was still all over the place. Old mugs, a pile of clothing Pete never dared to touch, family pictures and ever a few plants he managed to take care of, somehow. He finally grabbed the keys and left to work without a thought.
It was similar every single day. Pete never really has any time for himself or for his band. Patrick was getting angry at him sometime but ended up understanding every time. After all, Pete never asked for his mom to get into a coma due to a liver failure. It was more a cause to accident type of situation. Her treatment was just so expensive and paying all the bills by himself was a curse.
He came back home Sunday night, May 17. Pete loves Mondays since the café shop is closed on those days. He could put time for his band or just sleep until afternoon. He turned the vintage radio on, always listening to the same music post of old rock he thought no one really listened to anymore. Pete boiled some water and poured it into a pre-made ramen bowl, since cooking at night was too exhausting. He sat at the table, eating his warm meal. A piece of paper happened to be on the table. After a light analysis, the boy noticed it was just a picture that fell from the wall next to him. A fork in his right hand, he grabbed the picture with his left. He took a moment to look at it. Another family picture. It was only a month before the accident. There was Pete’s mom, the biggest smile in the world on her face as she held her son in her arms. He was four or five years old on there. Next to them was his dad. This picture was the only thing that reminded Pete of the face of his dad since he had already forgotten his voice. Videos were useless, he said, better forget about him instead of grieving. He will not come back anyway. That car accident did not miss him back then. He stood up to pin the picture back where it was, then threw his ramen in the trash, the fork in the sink. Better just go to bed already. He planned to take time to practice bass the next day.
5:12 AM. The doorbell rang. Pete did not move an inch. 5:13 AM. The doorbell rang twice. Pete opened his eyes but closed it back. Must be hell of a dumb bird. Thirty seconds later, it rang for the third time with insistence. He finally stood up, curled up in a blanket to hide the fact he was only in underwear and rushed annoyingly downstairs. Who would bother him at this time? It was the only day he could sleep. Nice, ruined. It could be Patrick, but he would have called first. He doubts any of his bandmates would bother him like that. He didn’t hesitate before unlocking the door and to open it, he was still lost and half awake. Did not even have the time to look up that he heard an unfamiliar voice.
???: “Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III.”
He looked up. Did he just get called by his full legal name for absolutely no reason? He had no idea who this guy was and why is was wearing a very fancy coat with a pitch-black tie. Well, it could have been marine- the night was too dark for him to really make a difference between those two colors right now and the fact that a stranger knew his name was quite too unsetting to think about anything else. Pete almost choked on his own voice. “I’m sorry?” The weird guy offered him an envelope with what seemed to be a document inside. He didn’t say a word, so Pete guessed he had to open it. He peaked at the top of the first page, but it was dark, he read vaguely. Secret contract… words, words, words, money… Oh well that’s an interesting word. He looked back at the man, but no one seemed to be there anymore. In confusion, he looked around but ended up concluding that looking for him was a waste of time. He knew his name and his address; he could probably also vanish as he please...? Whatever.
Pete closed the door and turned the light of the living room on. He sat on his couch and looked at the envelope before taking all of the papers out. A paper smaller than the others fell on his lap. He looked at it first. It seemed like a check. “What the…” $2000. Right there. Pete felt a drop of sweat on his forehead, he did need money, but he wasn’t easy to fool. This was too easy. Too good to be true. He dropped the check and grabbed aggressively the document and read the big lines. Hitman contract. Pete’s hands were shaking and he panted loudly. The paper explained that Pete had to murder secretly a certain boy that was not specified on the paper and that he could have very big money with that. He will have a month, so four weeks and three days to find the desired strategy to kill. It has mostly recommended him to gain the victim’s trust, that’s why the deadline is so long. He would get money every week and of course a bigger reward at the end. If he didn’t achieve the contract or if he revealed it to anyone, he would be the one to get killed, as simple as it is. It was followed by a phone number that he had to contact if he was interested in having the victims information.
He dropped the rest of the paper on the couch. He felt sick. That kind of feeling when you feel dizzy, when your hands sweat, when there’s something stuck in your throat. He just wanted to back up in time because, hell, this can’t be happening. Pete stood up and just walked around the table in the room. He was absolutely not considering it, he just felt awful to know this was a thing. Should he call a friend? Should he call the police? Something inside him kind of believed this and assumed that calling for help was exactly the thing not to do… He just had to take the money and to burn the rest. He left everything there and walked back upstairs to his room. This was just a dream. This was just a nightmare. There’s no way anyone would do that anyways, why was this prank so well written, then? He buried his face in his pillow and yelled a shot like he wanted his anxiety to go down. Maybe after a huge hour looking for the good ASMR video to blur his mind, he fell asleep.
This time, he woke up because of a phone call. He was deadly pissed. Will he ever be able to sleep…? 10 AM exactly. He was half awake when he answered.
“Hello Peter, this is the hospital calling.”
Oh, great. This was never good news. Always about his mom’s state, sometimes it was just a checkup or sometimes it was to bring something from home.
“Yeah… himself”
“I am calling about your mother. She’s still in a coma state. Yet we noticed her state was not stable. She would need an augmentation of her monthly medication an- “
Pete cut her in the middle of her sentence. This was the second time happening and probably will be the same thing. He will have to pay more for his mom. His stupid mom. If she wasn’t drinking so much back then, she’d be okay. He can’t afford an operation, so they are kind od just trying to keep her alive, hoping she’d wake up and pay for herself. What was clearly a dream. He didn’t knew how it worked and never tried to understand. He just answered every calls and found a way to pay. Yet he was so short right now. His mom always has been a burden but now that was completely awful.
“How much”
“$70 a month more”
“okay”
And he hung up. He didn’t had to argue, he knew this wasn’t a choice. Yet he was so short. He was tired to cut in food and electricity. He was tired to tell his friend he was not able to hang out because of money. He almost got kicked out of his own band a few time, but they always end up too kind. He had no idea how in hell he was going to pay for this. He will probably have to go in debt.
He dressed up and walked downstairs, not looking where he was going since he was too busy rubbing his eyes. Like an automatic routine, Pete turned the coffee machine on and slid a mug under. He looked at the window, his mind awfully blank for two minutes before taking the now full cup in his hand. He walked toward his living room, put down the cup on the table, then looked at the couch where he was about to sit. He felt like getting slapped in the face when he saw the paper, reminding him of what happened only five hours ago. He started to feel it again, that uneasy feeling. He sat next to it, careful not to touch it like it was a fragile thing. He finally took it back in his hand.
“Did they know... about my mom… I don’t get it. I wouldn’t need it normally… I’m tight but I’m living. Yet of course I can’t afford $70 more per month...”
Pete was feeling worse, but not because he found it awful just like tonight. Because he was starting to consider it. There’s no job he could get right now that would really help, plus the weekly pay are very good… What if he could stop working for years and live in luxury at the same time… after all, it’s just one person. He also saw a few movie, murdering someone cannot be that hard, right…? He’s good to manipulate people, he’s good at not to get easily attached to anyone. So maybe... Just maybe, for money…
He started to feel a headache coming. He looks at his coffee mug, a big crack in the middle fixed with strong glue. He looked at the two lightbulbs on the top of his head, one of them burned. He looked at his dirty old couch, at the peeling paint on the wall. He thought about how he dropped out of school just to work and that he had no idea for how long he was supposed to keep going like that. He thought about his band that could work but he was never available to work on it. He started to feel overwhelmed by his thoughts. Pete started to repeat in his own head that, at nineteen years old, he had absolutely no future and that all he could do was cocktails, coffee and play bass. He panted, his hands over his head like he tried to pull his brain out.
“Ah... ah… If I just accepted this contract… I could live on that money the time I go back to school… then I could finish university… and then have a real job and time for myself… My mom could be back to help me too. Ah… ah…”
For the first time in his life, he saw light. He saw a real escape to his problem. He took his phone and almost hurried to write the number that was on the contract in his contact. Then he stopped. He stared at it. Then he started to write something, which was hard since his hands were shaking.
- “Hello?”
He received an answer immediately, there were automatic messages.
– “Hello Peter. Are you interested in the contract? This is an automatic message. Please answer only by yes or by no. There will be no turn coming back. This will be saved as your signature.”
He did hesitate but not for long. He was already in an awful state of mind.
- “yes.”
- “Great. We counted on you. There is the victim’s information. Gentle reminder to keep them for yourself. The countdown of 31 days starts right now. You have until June 18.”
A document was sent right after. Slightly nervous, he clicked on it. A presentation page appeared like a Wikipedia. Michael James Way (Aka: Mikey Way) Lives: Belleville, New Jersey. Age, 19. The text was followed by a few pieces of information like his school, what he likes, his exact address, his family members and even a few habits he had. A physical description as his size and weight and a few pictures. Rectangular glasses over his kind of blond shaded hair, straightened and not very long in the back. Mikey had longer hair on the front since he had a side bang. He seemed like a normal awkward teenager, why on world would anyone want to kill that guy. By the description, he wasn’t a bad person.
He was about to take back his coffee and to relax a bit before reminding himself that the countdown started already. “Better start stalking that dude…” He rolled his eyes at researching the location, he was really close to his place. Maybe five minute in car. He knew the shops around his place, now he was just supposed to find a way to talk to him, what was hard. Can you really make friends with anyone like that? Pete analyzed the picture a few more seconds. He will have to murder that guy… He sighed and moved himself before standing up to put his shoes on and to open his door.
Pete had no idea what to do or where to go. Mostly, he had no idea what was going on. He couldn’t prosses the fact he impulsively accepted to kill someone just for a little money. He had no experience and no idea how and what to do.