Scream: A Drake & Josh Story

You Might Be The Killer

Instead of a deafening pop!, there was a devastating click. Drake's pounding heart sank, and a high-pitched whimper left him even though he fought hard to keep his mouth closed. He cried through his nose, and snot dripped down his chin. He exhaled shakily, and without opening his eyes, he cocked the gun again. Drake took a breath and held it, just like before. It was hard enough finding the courage — or cowardice — to press down on the trigger the first time, and now he had to start all over. He squeezed his eyes closed, and then he squeezed the trigger.

Click! He got the same result. He could feel himself losing his nerve. He used his thumb to pull the hammer back again, and before he could give it much thought, he gave it another shot.

Drake growled with both frustration and fear when he found that he was still alive. It sounded inhuman...animalistic...and it came from deep within his gut. There were bullets in this fucking thing, right?! When would they—

It occurred to the boy then. He turned his head towards the closet and saw the bullet holes in the door: one...two...three. Just like the number of attempts on his life he'd just taken: one...two...three. The next one would surely be his last. For real this time. Did he still want to do this?

He faced forward again. His mother was no longer sitting on the foot of the bed, smiling and unharmed. Rather, she was a rotting corpse on the blood-stained sheets, just as she had been for exactly a year now. What he wanted didn't matter. He had to do this. He couldn't let anyone else die so that he could go on living. He wasn't worth it, and he didn't deserve it.

Drake pulled the hammer back, then breathed loudly and deeply, trying to hype himself up yet again. This should've been a one-and-done thing. He shouldn't have had to go through the process of convincing himself to follow through with what needed to be done four times. Like before, he held his breath, closed his eyes, and — one...two...three... — pressed down on the trigger.

Click!

"FUCK!" he screamed. He didn't bother with the preparations this time. He cocked it, pulled the trigger, click!, cocked it, pulled the trigger, click!

His arm weakly fell to his side, and he let go of the gun. He sobbed so hard that his shoulders shook, and he nearly passed out from being unable to catch his breath. When he managed to inhale, Drake let out a raw, guttural scream at the top of his lungs, then he hunched forwards as he continued to audibly sob.

Drake wasn't sure how long he remained like that. It could've been minutes...hours...days...weeks... He had lost track of time completely, and he still felt his mind teetering on the edge of sanity. Maybe his therapist was right. Maybe he did need those antipsychotics after all. Even though Huntley had forced him to swallow one in front of a crowd of his peers today, he had gone so long without them that it would take weeks for them to get back in his system. Drake didn't have that long.

He picked up the gun, then stood up on his wobbly legs. He dragged his feet as he moved over to his mother's side of the bed. He sat down with his back to the door, not caring in the slightest if the killer slipped into the room and jammed a knife into his back. He'd be doing Drake a favor. He'd be doing everyone a favor.

He placed the weapon on the nightstand, then opened the drawer and reached inside to retrieve a folded-up cardigan. It was soft and blue, which was his mother's favorite color, so it was no wonder that this was her favorite cardigan. He held it up by the shoulders, allowing the sleeves to drop, then he pulled it against himself.

He tried to breathe in through his nose — to remember his mother's scent of vanilla and coffee — but his nostrils were stopped up. Drake laid on his side, still clinging to the cardigan like it was his childhood security blanket. He laid one of the sleeves across himself and nestled against the sweater, then he brought his knees up to his chest in the fetal position. This is the closest he would ever come to being held by his mom. He'd never again get to feel the full warmth and comfort of her soothing embrace. It was all he had, and he was content to stay like this until his inevitable, gruesome death.