Kairos - Blood (MxM) | Book 2 | ✅

4.Bloody Kisses

Thank God, I was a slob and had been carrying around my old apartment key, forgotten in the interior pocket of my coat.

The lease had yet to expire so nobody had been in or out of the place in weeks.

Dark and dusty, it reeked like an ashtray and I found the culprit on a stool by the bed. Butts of cigarettes crumpled up on a small plate.

I opened the window. Once I could breathe, my search began.

Nothing. No black notebooks anywhere.

The top of the bookcase was bare and that was the last place I had seen those wretched things.

I pulled on the bookcase and sharp needles ran across my back. Sticky, warm blood trickled against my skin and I sighed with a grunt.

"You better be here, you fucking..." I mumbled and smirked.

The black notebooks had fallen, sprawled against the wall behind the bookcase.

Reverently, I picked them up one by one and debated whether to read some of my scribblings now or later at home.

Perhaps a sneak peek won't hurt.

The cigarette butts multiplied, one by one, overspilling from the ashtray by the bed. I couldn't stop. It was gruesome and terrifying, like watching disaster footage on a quiet afternoon. Rows of victims were getting hauled off, toys half eaten by fire, full dinner plates abandoned, and other such images injected themselves into my mind even if the contents of the notebooks had nothing to do with those things or even with disasters.

My thoughts...

As a 14-year-old kid whose parents had just passed away, I had awful pictures to depict and dark ideas to release and share.

But the notebooks were mostly keepers of stories. Meaningless, sad stories that I needed to read but couldn't make sense of.

Notebook seven offered an eerie experience. Most of its tales featured two characters. Peter and Max. Peter was a scrawny uninteresting fellow. Max was strong and fascinating. Their adventures sounded like nothing I could have experienced in the past. This was fiction. Like the story I was currently working on with the same character names and roughly the same personalities, it meant nothing real - just fiction.

Fuck. This isn't helping. I can't remember us, Jack.

A gang of vicious bikers was chasing the unfortunate heroes. They had seen something they shouldn't have, or have stolen something from them - I couldn't keep up since 14-year-old me wrote twisting and confusing plots. It was night. Peter and Max crawled beaten by heavy rain, taking a moment to rest. The bikers hummed in the distance, headlights searching. Overcoming his fear, Peter took Max's hand in his.

"I'll slow them down," he said.

"Peter, you dweeb, I'm not leaving you."

"I'm your guard dog, remember?" Peter spoke lowly and pushed Max onto the muddy slope.

Max slid over 40 feet down and landed in some bushes.

I sighed displeased and put out my cigarette mumbling, "Why establish a character as physically stronger and then make the weak one brave, protective and self-sacrificing?"

Peter led the thieves away from Max and reached a dead end in some junk yard.

Another cigarette and I snickered shaking my head at 14-year-old me. "This is where the badass character, Max, returns to save the scrawny kid, right? Predictable."

The stories were flawed but I had fun trying to figure out my youthful reasoning. And yes, this one twisted as I had predicted.

Peter hid among piles of junk. Max came at just the right moment to save Peter from the angry bikers. But to my surprise, that got him killed.