knives out || why don't we

"Hostage"

28

𝙹𝙰𝚁𝙱𝚈𝙽

HE LOOKED UP,

his blonde hair flat against his head and the crimson blood mixed between. He felt a light touch against his naked back and the soft, warm breath against his neck.

"Hi," Corbyn spoke softly, not looking back as he felt the curly-headed's hands around his wrists; taking the handcuffs off. "Hello, beautiful," Jack greeted him, helping the hurting boy to stand. Corbyn whimpered and his knees buckled, Jack catching him before he fell to the ground.

The brunette picked the seventeen year old up, linking Corbyn's legs around his waist and placing his hands under his thighs. The blonde sighed, leaning his head against Jack's shoulder and flinched when he heard the following words. "Your parents still didn't pay me, sweetheart," "They don't care about me. They won't pay you, sir, not when you're threatening to take my life," Corbyn whispered to the twenty-eight year old, tears glazing his eyes. "They never cared about me, only about the money. They won't give a dollar away, they're too selfish. They think they have done everything and deserve every penny, but they haven't done a thing. Their partner did everything. And plus, my father died this year and my mother is just selfish, doesn't care about me,"

"I didn't need you to tell me that, sweetheart. I'm only here to get you to eat something, freshen up and tell you your mother, i guess, has three days left. Otherwise, i will have to say goodbye to you," Corbyn nodded, biting his lower lip to keep the sobs inside of his throat, but let the salty, warm droplets fall from his icy-blue eyes. He was only seventeen, his life shouldn't be taken from him like this, but this happened everyday; people kidnapping others for ransom— murdering, because they didn't get enough, or even something at all.

Jack sat the blonde down on the chair, cuffing his left wrist to the table and pecking his forehead softly. "It's okay," He told Corbyn softly, but it wasn't; Jack knew he would in three, slow days take the seventeen year old's life and continue his own as if nothing were wrong. The twenty-eight year old turned to the fridge, taking out the ingredients needed and started cooking a meal for the youngest in the home.

"I have to send a new picture to your parents. I will have to hurt you more," Jack didn't face him when he heard a sob leave the younger's lips; it was a normal routine— Jack taking him to the kitchen, telling him his parents had a few days left, Corbyn crying, Jack beating him, taking a picture and letting Corbyn freshen up one day, ignore him the other and repeating the process.

Placing the meal in front of Corbyn, the adult gave the teen a fork and let him eat with time. "Are you really going to kill me?" Corbyn questioned, looking up into Jack's eyes and sniffling softly. "Probably," Jack muttered, gripping the blonde's chin gently and brushing his thumb over his jawline. Corbyn just nodded at the answer, he was prepared for it; he wanted to live, yes, but he knew Jack would murder him eventually— so, he didn't care as much anymore.

Corbyn ate the food on his plate, giving it to Jack once he finished. "Okay, now, let's go down again," The seventeen year old nodded at him, feeling the metal around his wrist loosen. Jack picked him up again and brought him downstairs, setting the boy down on the mattress and cuffing his wrists to the wall again.

Corbyn screamed out once he felt the knife against his back, slicing his skin. Jack turned to his sides, cutting the skin open, until Corbyn had almost passed out from not only the pain, but the blood loss. His thighs were cut open, too, as well as his arms. Jack smashed his head against the wall three times for blood to appear and drop down the seventeen year old's face.

"That's good," He muttered, taking the phone out of his pocket and taking a picture of the hurting, almost passed out blonde. He sent the picture with the following words, 'three days'. Three days were all the mother was given now, having thrown away the four days she had had to pay him already.

"Shh, you're fine, baby," The curly headed spoke, un-cuffing the teen and holding him close; he let the blood smear on his clothing— wanting to comfort Corbyn in any way he could. "You're fine," With time Corbyn had calmed down, his sobbing having turned into sniffles and hiccups. The headache being an evident pounding in his head.

Jack picked him up and carried the bleeding teen up the stairs towards the bathroom. He set Corbyn down on the cover of the toilet and turned him around to see his bloody back. Jack's fingers traced the cuts, making Corbyn hiss at him and arch his back. Jack sighed softly, cleaning the cuts and wrapping the gauze around his waist and up— covering all of his back. He wrapped the boy's thighs and forearms, kissing his bloody forehead softly and holding Corbyn close; the blonde's head against his stomach and his arms around Jack's waist.

"You're completely fine," Corbyn whimpered at the words, closing his eyes; the pain of the headache increased with every second. "Can't you just kill me now," His whispered question made Jack's guilt increase. Corbyn may have been rich, but obviously he was hurting; the cause of that being his parents— Jack knew he was only increasing that pain in more ways than physical. "Yes, i could, but do you really want to? Don't you want to wait for three more days?" Corbyn shook his head at the questions, the material of Jack's clothing wrinkling between his fingers. "Just do it, please. You're going to anyway,"

In only a matter of seconds, Jack's hands wrapped around Corbyn's throat tightly; squeezing the skin blue and purple. Corbyn's hands rose to hold Jack's in the beginning, but soon fell down once the boy's heartbeat had stopped and his life had been taken away from him.

"My beautiful baby!" Jack had loosened his hold, his hands immediately being gripped and cuffed. He could see the pain in the mother's eyes as he watched her look at her only child; beaten, cut, strangled. "Corbyn, baby," Her cries were loud, Jack being held against the bathroom wall by one of the many officers that had entered his home. "My beautiful baby," She held the deceased boy in her hands, her arms wrapped tightly around him as the blood left the body from his many cuts. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," She cried and continued to hold her dead son as close as she could; apologizing for not being there on time— for not just paying instead of calling the police.

And she continued to hate herself for it for the rest of life; it being ended by herself jumping down from the bridge to accompany her family in heaven.

wc: 1176.

[a/n]
It's kind of, a little, my birthday

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May third, 12:02 am