Psycho Killer || Starrison

Chapter Three

Exactly how George has expected, ha wasn't able to sleep that night. He was twisting in the sheets from side to side, haunted by merciless remorse, knowing that there is no way back now. Paul was still unconscious deep down in his basement. The man took a big dose of sleeping pill, so he'll remain like this for quite long. Unaware that those are the last hours of his young life. Everything was much easier when he didn't know these people. He could push the scruples away. But Macca... was a completely different thing. How will Harrison bear it?

Finally, he managed to fall asleep, restlessly, but even then he couldn't find peace. He heard screams, begging for mercy. He heard voice which clearly belonged to Paul. George woke up, shaking and looked at the clock. A few minutes past seven.

Don't waste your time, Arthur mumbled in a husky voice, good morning. The faster you do this, the better.

George couldn't argue with this, which didn't brighten up his mood. He got up unwillingly and went downstairs. He wasn't able to eat breakfast — the food wouldn't go down his throat. Harrison pulled himself together and walked to the basement's door, opening it unsurely, going down.

Paul was still unconscious. Just as the guitarist has expected. He still had enough time, so prepared every necessary thing. And then tied the sleeping man down to the table with belts. He felt disgust towards himself more than ever before. The man was disgusted with what he was doing. It wasn't just another random stranger! It was Paul McCartney! What the hell was he up to?! George moved his chair over and sat beside the unconscious man, face in hands, waiting.

After some time he heard the bassist rapidly breaths in. He woke up and looked around insecurely, blinking. McCartney wanted to get up but his hands and legs were all professionally tied up.

"What the fuck..." he murmured, yanking desperately. Eventually he noticed George. "I can't move. Help me," he groaned, trying to break free.

"I know," said Harrison very quietly.

"Then help me!" The guitarist ignored him, focusing on preparations.

Macca's screams became more and more aggressive. "Let me free! It's not funny! Whose idea was this? John's? Poor joke."

'I'd like it to be a joke,' George thought, measuring required amount of what he needed.

He'll use it later. Harrison turned to the older man again. Paul gave him an angry glance. He kept on yanking, a few strands of hair fell on his face.

"George, the hell!" A spark of anxiety appeared in his eyes. Being tied up in the dark basement surely was exceeding his comfort zone. Harrison sighed deeply, grabbed a rag and took it off of a metal table, sending moats of dusts into the air; it haven't been used since last month. McCartney's eyes became wider, his heart started beating faster with fear at this sight. There was a sizable collection of knives, medical tools, all kinds of blades, bags of medicines, syringes and other objects that no sane person should have in their own house. Everything carefully organized.

The man felt a wave of panic when his mind tried to understand this whole situation.

"G-George... you... you're not gonna..."

"I'm sorry, Paul..." Harrison whispered. "I-it won't last long..."

Stop. Don't comfort him, Arthur snapped.

The younger one curled up slightly and avoided his friend's gaze, making sure that everything is ready.

"I-it's you... You killed all those people, right? You're this murder?"

Silence.

"George, please. You can't do that. Not to me. Let me go. I promise, I won't tell anyone. We'll forget about this. It can't end like this!" Paul's voice was becoming more and more pleading and desperate.

But there was no answer.

"You can't kill me! I'm a Beatle! They'll look for me! And find you! And then convict you! George!"

Harrison took a knife; medium-sized one, really sharp.

"We're friends! We've known each other since childhood! We play in one band! If I ever done something to you, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!"

George walked to him slowly.

"Please! Please! George! For the sake of our friendship! George! George... GEORGE! NOOO! GEORGE!"

His screams became hysterical yells, when the blade got deep into man's skin.

The blood had gushed.

"GEORGE! STOOOP! PLEASE! D-DON'T DO IT! I'LL DO ANYTHING! AHH! G-GEORGE!" Crimson splattered on both of them. Macca was shouting and flouncing. "NO! PLEASE! NOOO! JOHNNY... JOHNNY! HELP ME, PLEASE!"

"John is not here. He won't help you," said Arthur cruelly, continuing his wicked show.

"JOHNNY!" Paul bellowed more like an animal than a human.

His big, doe eyes filled with tears of real suffering, that streamed down the bassist's cheeks. The screams were now fixed with uncontrollable sobbing. The pain was unbearable. McCartney kept on yanking, stripping his skin painfully in the places where his hands were tied down to the table. Primal yells turned into curses, threats and insults. Then they became whimpers and begging for mercy. After that he was hysterically crying, until he finally blacked out, suffering.

Harrison couldn't bear this sight. He closed himself off. He couldn't stand how Paul was looking at him. Like at a monster — which he was. It wasn't his fault though. George hadn't control over his own body. So he backed off, letting Arthur work, hating himself for this deep inside.

***

Arthur raised his head, swiping the drops of blood, that were covering his whole face. Then he looked down at his victim.

Paul was lying on the table, in the puddle of his own, warm blood. The man's body became terribly harmed. He was still alive, but slowly drifting away because of the blood loss. A few times he lost conscious from pain and the torturer had to inject him with adrenaline to wake the bassist up. Now he knew the time has come.

He came to Macca slowly, whispering something. He put out an inject and pushed the needle right in the bassist's neck, just like he did to any other victim. From this moment he had fifty minutes before the poison would get into Paul's heart. So he sat on a chair and started a conversation. Although it was hard to call it a conversation — rather monologue. McCartney was sobbing quietly, every now and then groaning weakly. Arthur was talking about everything and nothing in particular, just as if he was having casual conversation with a friend, and not a dying in pain man. Finally, the bassist's breath calmed and then ceased. He stopped moving.

Arthur got up and walked to him, wanting to check the pulse, sure that the man is dead. Suddenly Paul opened dimly his eyes full of tears. They were filled with suffer and sadness. This sight would shatter normal human's heart — Arthur wasn't normal human though.

"Easy there, easy," said the murdered, cursing in mind. He probably gave him too small dose of poison. Murmuring some calming words, he took McCartney's head in both of his hands and then snapped his neck in one, smooth move.

Paul McCartney wasn't existing any longer.