Misanthropy - [ryden]

3. Fear

**descriptions of necrophilia and body dismemberment; will put warning. Message me if you'd like the rundown so you won't have to read it.**

Fear. Fear, darling, fear.

It's inevitable that everyone feels fear at some point. Fear of missing your train for work or fear of someone breaking into your house in the middle of the night.

"Did I leave the stove on?"

That's an odd fear, and also the most cliché Brendon had ever heard. People use it for everything. To get out of an awkward conversation, to go home early from a night out they didn't want to attend, or even to excuse themselves from a date they shouldn't even be on. All of those - coincidentally - are all fears that they try to conquer but try to weasel out of when they realize they can't win.

Fear. An unnerving concept, that.

Not many people are afraid of themselves, though. Not many people sit in bed, thoughts running a mile a minute as they try to look past their closed bedroom door into the bathroom where a bottle of sleeping pills sit conveniently and invitingly in the medicine cabinet. Not many people spend their time being afraid of having to wake up in the morning and actually try to converse with people, in turn causing them to be angry because why can't they function like a normal human?

Why can't he just function?

It's not like he even has anything to be afraid of. He was careful, and tactful, and he was smart, something others around him were not. But, then again, he can't particularly be trusted to not act on a spontaneous whim - not like he hasn't been down that road before.

Not like he hasn't just said 'fuck it' once or twice, about to go through with erasing himself from future history (an oxymoron, by the way) when he's interrupted. Always interrupted. Whether it's fate or everyone and everything else's terrible timing, he'll never know.

Does Brendon even believe in fate? Not really, no - but that doesn't stop him from cursing it profoundly when he finds his eyes opening the next morning and he has to repeat the same tedious pattern he'd been sunken into over and over again.

He's afraid. Yeah, he'll admit it.

But whether he's afraid of dying or of living, he'll never really know.

* * *

After spending hours cleaning DNA from his car and from his house, Brendon relaxed on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. He sipped on his beer as the television hummed quietly, the remnants of an old sitcom coming through the speaker. Brendon wasn't sure what the show was called, but it's not like he was really paying attention, anyways; he was still coming down from the high he was currently on as he remembered the events from earlier.

**EXPLICITLY DESCRIPTIVE NECROPHILIA/MURDER WARNING: PLEASE AVOID IF YOU THINK YOU WILL BE TRIGGERED**

At some point during Brendon's task of strangling him, the younger man's eyes flew open and stayed open even after all the live was ripped from him. Watching his body fall the floor and roll to face him so fluidly was enticing enough, but the fact that his eyes stayed wide open nearly sent Brendon over the edge right then and there.

As he took no time in absolutely defiling the body of this young man, he never broke contact with his beady, dead eyes. In his mind, it made the encounter so much more intimate and drove his predatory nature absolutely wild. He did, however, take his time in decorating his body however he saw fit. The decorations included slices from his pocket knife, bruises from his mouth, red marks on his cheeks from his calloused palm, and even some broken fingers on the younger's hands.

The pure ecstasy that was flowing through Brendon's veins was almost too much to handle as he relieved himself inside of the deceased, younger man. He was panting heavily, his lungs trying to keep up with him as he removed himself from his prey and admired his work. None of his blood was on the floor, nor was it on any of Brendon's possessions. Despite that, the look on Andrew's face as Brendon brushed his hair from his paling forehead would stay embedded in his brain for however long to come.

He then took the deceased man to the basement and immediately went to severing the limbs like he always did. The cauldron had already been over the fire in the cutout fireplace and the water was already at a boil, which made it one last thing Brendon had to wait for. He bent the arms at the elbows and the legs at the knees before setting them in the boiling water and placing the large iron lid on top.

He returned to the disconnected torso and severed head and immediately began smiling. He reached down and picked up the head, bringing his lips softly against the forehead. "You're beautiful, Andrew," he whispered to the body part, staring into the eyes that were still open and staring back at him as he walked over to the deep freezer and cracked it open.

He placed one more soft kiss to the lips before pulling away and smiling even wider and placing it into the bottom corner of the freezer. "So damn beautiful," he whispered one last time before shutting the hatch door and heading back over to the torso and slipping on his hazard gloves. There was nothing that he wanted from the torso itself, none of those bones or organs he wanted to keep at all. He'd thought about keeping a heart from one of his lovers once, but it pained him to think of keeping the heart of a lover that would no longer beat.

He opened the large barrel of sulfuric acid he kept behind a locked door and marveled over the structure and fit shape of Andrew's torso for a moment longer before slowly placing it in the barrel and closing the lid. Locking the door afterward, he slipped off the gloves and placed them back on the work table before sighing contentedly and leaving the basement.

Another job well done, Brendon.

**SAFE TO READ AGAIN**

The next day at the office was absolute chaos. Because he never really pondered over events that would occur after he made one of his findings, he was just as chaotic as everyone at the office, but for different reasons. Betts came right to Brendon and announced why the detectives and police were all hectic, breaking the news that "Andrew Mrotek skipped town over night."

Brendon was relieved for a moment, immediately masking his relief with faux anger. "So now we've got no suspect," he stated, voicing the concern that was on everyone's mind. "That's what happens when you don't keep a murder suspect in holding."

No one told Brendon off for his wording, in fact, the looks on everyone's faces and the way some of the police hung their heads signaled that they all agreed. No one argued with Brendon around here, not a single person. Not even the head of the tact force, who entered the office at that exact moment.

"Alright, everyone," he started, his stern voice reaching all ears easily, "the owner of The Snake Pit said that the last time he saw Mrotek was at when he left the bar at about two forty this morning. Now, it is currently eight twenty-three, which means if he left town, he's been on the run for almost six hours. I want his face sent to every police station within a five-hundred mile radius of here, and don't leave any city out."

He then turned toward Betts and Brendon, jerking his thumb toward the exit before speaking directly to them. "The two of you are needed at 2302 West Avenue for a 10-47 and 10-43."

The two detectives nodded at the larger man, placing their guns in their holsters before vacating the office and going to Betts' cruiser, Betts making conversation on the way down. "Domestic dispute and homicide," he said mindfully, turning toward Brendon as he pulled out his keys. "Think it was self-defense?"

Brendon pursed his lips and sighed softly. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"