Unwritten

B. J. Johnson's Receipts

His foot taps against the carpet to a new beat; he doesn't hum along anymore, but his hips sway with a hint of something eerie, something mystical – the kind of confidence you can't quite place, but that captivates you nonetheless. The tune itself is equally odd, light and high but with a hidden darkness that makes it all the more captivating. He heard it on television, recently, and can't seem to unhear it. Not that he's complaining. It's a great song.

Brendan James Johnson sits next to Tube Boy, his lips pouted ever-so-slightly. He looks like a tragedy waiting to happen, like the first grey cloud before the storm. Beautiful, and innocent enough, but with something lurking beneath. What the something is, though, will always be hidden. Until it's too late, at least.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey." Tube Boy flashes a bright white smile, perfectly clean and symmetrical. Normally, Brendan might be starstruck; today, he smiles back. "You were gone a while."

"I was."

"Where?"

"It's a story and a half. Not the kind you'd tell a stranger."

Tube Boy extends his hand. "I'm Ryan."

"Brendan." He pauses. "Alright. If you insist...But I should warn you. It's a dark story – a scary one, even. And it has two parts. Most stories do."

/

The storm is here, now. He didn't notice it coming, or at least didn't see it arrive, but it surrounds him in every direction and still seems to be closing in, as if it's waiting to trap the three remaining visitors. Pam and Charles are cackling, high-pitched glee in every twisted laugh, like nails digging into a crow's back. Brendan stares down at the ground; when he was young, if he thought something scary was about to happen in a movie, he'd look down as pointedly as he could, desperate to avoid it, and wait it out. Ida is shaking. Billy's smiling, still, as though he's trying to make it look like he has no concern in the world. Like this is nothing. It doesn't reach his eyes, though – nobody could possibly be that delusional.

"Decibi Moro!" screams Charles. "We offer you these last three souls as a sacrifice. May your favour grant us for the years to come, so that we may once again grow to be young and beautiful, so that our hopes may once again be met. So that we may live, time and time again, in your service. Oh, Decibi Moro, hear our words! Bask in our adoration! Take our sacrifice, and feed on it, so that you may live forever!"

If the three were scared before, they're panicked now. Brendan shuts his eyes, as tight as he can – maybe this is all a dream, and he'll wake up at any moment. It'd be a cheap excuse, a horrible copout after all that has happened, but he finds he wouldn't be disappointed in the slightest. After all, it looks like it's that or death, and he knows which of the two sounds a better option to him.

No. You've sacrificed too much; any more and you'll be children again, or infants, or unborn, and you'd be no use to me then. Let one of the three have it. They can't leave anyway, not unless they're sworn to me. They know too much.

That voice! He'd know it anywhere – correction: he knows it anywhere. It may as well be an extension of his own mind at this point, so engrained in his thoughts that it speaks to him even when he doesn't want it to. Not that he ever doesn't want it too. Ever since that day on the beach, he's longed to hear that voice again, to know if the events were anything more than a fever dream. He feels that wooziness take him over again, locking him out of his own body, but this time he doesn't fight it. His body belongs to Him, after all, to do with it what he pleases. Isn't that what Brendan offered? Isn't that what Brendan wanted?

Swing me back and forth with your will, and make me do what you want. I'll obey, I promise. Show me what it means to be alive. That's what you asked for, isn't it?

And it is! He knows it is. Can any of the others hear Decibi Moro's words? A sudden jealousy feels Brendan at the mere thought, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to rid himself of them; they are obstacles in his story, standing between him and eternity with a voice that sends him into ecstasy the second it slithers into his body. They must die! There's no other option, really; no other option, period. He'd never thought he'd be the type to think like this, but, then again, people will do crazy things for love. They'll do even crazier crimes for lust, and God knows it's driving him mad now. Take me!he thinks. Take me over, so that I might have the strength to do this. For you. For us. I'm yours, from now until I die – but with you I'll live forever, won't I?

He can practically hear the voice smile. That's it. Go on. You're almost there. You're almost mine.

A knife materializes in his hand, and that settles it. This is divine will! He's never felt any sort of purpose, no envy this strong in his life – it's sinful, sure, but didn't man create sin as an ideal? It's nothing more than a word we give to a behaviour we don't understand, justified by its arbitrary attribution to a God we don't know exists. But Decibi Moro is real. Too real, even. So much so that he can feel him in the raising of his arm, the tightening of his fist, the grin that twists itself onto his face.

And then his body isn't his anymore. And then the rest is black.

\

Ryan laughs. "So where were you really?"

"America. Visiting a sick relative. Nothing that exciting."

Immediately, he notices how Ryan moves in towards him, the way his lips pout just a little, trying to draw Brendan's attention to them. It's a move he's written millions of times, but this is his first time on the receiving end of it and it feels amazing. He wants me, he knows. And he can have him, for all he cares. He's been waiting.

"You tell amazing stories," says Ryan.

"I could tell you more, if you want. My apartment's just at the next stop."

And they get up, and they stand, and Ryan follows him off. He doesn't notice, but there's a storm brewing outside. There's a chill in the air, that kind that nobody notices until the storm has come – but that's a problem for another story. After all, this one is ending. There's only one step left.

In the distance, Decibi Moro laughs.