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coldresolve · 3 months

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Moneymakers, pt.xliii // the_attic_181120XX

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Knuckles connect right under his eye, nearing the slope from his cheek to the bridge of his nose, and while the force behind it isn’t particularly damaging, it’s still enough to make his face snap sideways. The gasp he lets out stems mostly from surprise. In the moment where he takes a step backwards, gloved hand reaching to touch the site of impact, another punch lands on the side of his head, clipping his ear. That stings.

Renee sees red.

He pushes forward through flailing arms, slamming into the guy hard enough to knock them both over. Conrad lands partially on the mattress of his bed, and Renee follows closely behind, barely bracing himself before he shouts and brings his fist down, twice. A glimpse of red flying from the third one, low squawks of distress, barely noticeable under the ringing in Renee’s ears. But somehow, through the blows, Conrad manages to curl one leg up and plant a foot in his abdomen. He doesn’t have enough room to kick the wind out of him, but he accomplishes a solid push instead, one that throws Renee’s weight off, and he topples onto the bed, clawing at the covers as Conrad slips away, clearly headed for the door.

He doesn’t make it far. As soon as Renee has righted himself, he lurches forward, manages a slim grasp in the fabric of Conrad’s shirt. A hoarse cry is choked back when the collar draws tight over his throat, as is the one he tries to let out when he accidentally supports his weight on the bad leg in an attempt to keep his balance; his knee buckles completely, like the whole leg just gives out. The shirt slips from Renee’s fingers as Conrad sinks to the floor with a cry.

It’s almost eerie, how quickly Renee’s rage slides from frantic into something different. The sight of downed prey flips another switch. Your core is still burning, but your eyes latch on to him, much, much colder.

You get to your feet, close in his sorry excuse for a slipstream, boots treading over the drops of blood he leaves behind. You plant a foot on his lower back, and he crumples beneath you. He lets out this pathetic groan which only solidifies your desire to smear his guts on the wall. It’s just you and him, and nothing else. Nothing around you. Nothing in between.

You straddle his back, one gloved hand pushing his head to the floor, just keeping it steady. He can’t turn far enough to look you in the eye, but you can look into his clearly enough. There’s panic there, fear, but beneath it – what else? – disgust. He tries to hit your leg, weakly pushes at your knee, neck straining to raise his head. Wriggling, like a miserable little worm.

You’re sort of hoping something in his face breaks on the first punch. That’s the brand of effort you put into it, anyway; you want something to cave in. But once your fist has landed, and you hear that hoarse grunt of pain, feel his body twitch underneath you, you can’t bring yourself to pause and check. You just hit him again.

And again.

And again, until you lose track of anything else. Fucking cursed rhythm. The pain in your elbow rears its head, the bone that never really got a chance to heal. You can’t hear him anymore. You can’t hear yourself. You only hear the impact, the bludgeoning, aimless. The yawn of a void that aches to be filled, and what a goddamn bore it is. You’re predictable. This song is getting old, it’s nauseating, but you can’t stop.

And again.

And—

Davin’s voice is nearly inaudible. Intonation is hard to distinguish, as is volume. “Renee,” he says.

Conrad gasps beneath him, head still pressed down. Blurry splatters of vermilion on the floor. Renee stops, somehow. His fist hovers beside his shoulder, shaking. Teeth locked, panting through his nose. His vision is so clouded, he can barely see.

“Save it,” Davin tells him.

One of Conrad’s hands pushes against the floorboards in another attempt to get up. Blood bubbles from his nose, gets caught in the creases of a wince. Voice rattling, but there’s a trace of bitter laughter in it, too. “He’s, he’s using you.”

Renee doesn’t move. Doesn’t punch, but doesn’t let up, either. His thumb digs into Conrad’s cheek. His own breathing rings hollow in his chest, makes his whole body vibrate. It feels good to grind someone’s face into the floor. It feels fucking good.

But he’s calming down. He’s in control.

“Renee,” Davin repeats. Sounds impatient.

Renee lets out a hiss through his teeth, sneering as he grabs Conrad arm and twists it onto his back. Grunts of effort rise from Conrad’s chest, straining to pry himself loose. Thin little noodle arms, what the fuck does he expect? It’s not even a contest. Dumb motherfucker. Dumb fuck. Dumb fuck. Renee pins both wrists with one hand. He avoids looking at the guy’s face directly, even when a gasp sends pink spittle flying. The red in his periphery is enough to grasp the idea.

As Renee is patting down his pockets for the handcuffs, still breathless, he hears the chain rattle from a few feet to his right. Shuts his eyes, baring his teeth. If he has to take another smug look from the mop, he’s pretty sure he will actually, physically explode. He just holds a hand out in Davin’s direction, and waits, until the nonchalant footsteps have drawn near, and something bumps the palm of his hand.

Once the cuffs are on, he lets Conrad go entirely. Pushes himself to his feet, turning his back on them both as he digs his fingers into the joint of his elbow, searching for reprise from the pulsing waves of pain. He clicks open the button on his wrist to pull one glove off. When he touches his upper lip, his fingers, still shaking, come away red. He thought he could taste it; he spits on the floor. Wipes the bottom half of his face in his shirt. What the fuck am I doing? But he’s in control. He’s in control.

After a deep breath, Renee finally turns to Davin. Blank expression. Psycho. All the man does is hold the eye contact for a bit, and then wordlessly shift to look at Conrad on the floor. Renee steels himself, follows his gaze.

Lying on his side, half curled around himself. There’s a gash running parallel through the one eyebrow, another splitting the skin of his cheekbone. Blood from the nose too, and the mouth. Red marks of rapidly forming bruises, scattered all over that one side of his face. It’s already starting to swell. He's staring dead-eyed at something the floor directly in front of his face.

A molar. Looks like two at first, but no. It’s just cracked in half.

Renee inhales deep. Sets his jaw as he walks back to Conrad’s side, not that he really stands a chance of playing it off like nothing happened. He coughs to mitigate the uneven feeling of his own voice. “Get up.”

Shaky breathing interrupted briefly when Conrad swallows with some effort. That rattling sound again, like there’s something in his throat. “You s-, see it, don’t you? He’s using you.”

“Get up, Conrad.”

A grimace. “Go to hell.”

Renee feels his body tense up again, comes within a hair’s breadth of unleashing that energy in a hard kick. Instead he bows down to grab an upper arm. Conrad draws in a sharp inhale as Renee pulls him up. Strongly favoring the good leg, he staggers to keep his balance as Renee maneuvers him out the door, with Davin following closely behind.

It takes Renee a few too many moments of frustrated hauling along to realize Conrad isn’t just being difficult for the sake of it. He does try to keep up, but even the limping is off kilter, visibly dizzy. They’re halfway down the hall when he lets out a whine and sinks again, and Renee finds himself catching Conrad’s whole weight by the arm before he can fall on his face.

So be it. Renee picks him up. Hears the muffled croak as Conrad’s diaphragm is poised on one shoulder, the noises of discomfort for each step Renee takes. He’s skinny, but a hundred-and-some pounds still isn’t a light task to carry up a winding flight of stairs – by the time they reach the platform, Renee is winded once again, feels the sweat building under his clothes.

He drops Conrad rather unceremoniously in the open space in the middle of the room, and steps out of the spotlights’ rays to gather his bearings. Wipes his nose again – still bleeding, but it’s subsiding – as Davin takes up his usual seat behind the monitor, shaking the mouse to stir it from slumber. Their eyes meet. Renee is ready to snap back at another mention of the time, but it doesn’t come. Davin just turns to the computer. Types out a short command, then poises one elbow on the table, a closed fist covering his mouth.

Another deep breath, and more than one silent refrain of, It’s just a job. Get it over with. Renee turns. In passing, he hears the near-silent whisper from the body hunched on the floor.

“Don’t make me stand up.”

Gritting his teeth, Renee fishes both ends of the chain from the hook in the wall. It clinks from the exposed rafters above, sways with his movements as Renee returns to Conrad. He secures one end to the handcuffs by the heavy carabiner, fumbling briefly with the locking mechanism, getting more and more frustrated with how much his hands are shaking. Once it’s fastened, he pulls Conrad up by the arm again, eliciting a groan, and only lets go when Conrad’s trembling uncertainty has dimmed enough that he can at least keep himself vertical. And then Renee steps back, pulling the other end of the chain with alternating hands, until it draws taught, lifting Conrad’s bound hands up toward his shoulder blades. The wince, the way his torso curls forward, and his shoulders hunch to accommodate. He’s staring at the floor, teeth bared in a grimace. The streaks of blood on his face are drying rapidly under the heat of the lights, even if the wounds are still bleeding.

Renee can be cruel if he wants to. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Really, what’s another stream on his conscience? He can slip into the role of that giddy, vindictive host, and put on a show for the depraved. He can earn his fucking money, whatever that takes, and then fuck off to Vegas to see how long it’ll last. He pulls the balaclava out of his pocket, drags it over his head. These things are always mildly itchy, for some reason, and his stubble gets caught in the fabric when he moves his head.

It’s a reluctantly shared glance that settles it. A simple nod, and the press of a button. They’re live.

It takes him an extraordinary amount of time to speak. For the first minute of the stream, he slowly walks across the room to pick up a folding chair leaned against the wall. Its legs drag loudly across the floor as he hauls it back towards what he knows is center frame. “Ladies,” he mutters, and he lets that linger for a while. Flips open the chair, placing it no more than a foot from Conrad’s side. As he sits down, crossing one ankle over his knee, he lets out a sigh that gets caught in the fabric over his face. Scratches at his chin through the balaclava. “Gentlemen... Attic... Welcome. So on and so forth.

“It’s been a week, hasn’t it? But he’s not dead, so you can stop speculating. He’s even relatively intact still.” Renee hesitates. Nods his head towards Conrad’s face, but doesn’t take his eyes off the camera. “Don’t mind all that, we had a mutual disagreement.” He chuckles dryly, but it fades into another sigh, gaze wandering to the side. “Sure has been seven days on the calendar,” he mutters, trailing off for a moment, before he catches the eye of the lens again. “I wish I could show you all a gimp – sorry, glimpse of what’s been going on behind the scenes, but honesty, it’s been pretty uneventful. Just your average administrative bullshit. Paperwork, filing cabinets, office meetings… Boring shit. Lame, some might call it. Eh?”

He elbows Conrad lightly in the thigh, and although it elicits a hiss, Conrad doesn’t turn his head. Just keeps it bowed facing the opposite direction, hands curled into fists behind him.

“He agrees,” Renee concludes. Laughs again, and while it’s a far cry from genuine, he thinks it might at least be fake in a way that he can stomach. He makes a big show of stretching his arms out, only to fold his hands on the back of his head, leaning backwards. “Yeah, so, with all the usual coworker drama, I’ve been racking this galaxy brain of mine for ways we could have some fun for a change. Loosen up a little bit, y’know? Forget the stressors of our nine-to-fives in exchange for… something more lively. And the best way to do that, as far as I’m concerned—”

“I love my dad.”

Renee pauses. “Huh?”

Shoulders tense, eyes still fixed to the wall, blood dripping from his chin. Conrad blinks rapidly for a few seconds, swallowing. “I love my dad,” he says again, louder this time. Deep breath. “I love Howard.”

Renee nods a little, brows raised. “Heartwarming, C-boy.”

Swaying ever so slightly where he stands, Conrad continues. “I love Paisley, and Jude, and the, and the twins. I love Ma and Bill.”

Renee coughs. “I kinda had this whole bit planned out, you know.”

“I love, I love everybody.”

Renee snorts. “What, are you fuckin’ Jesus now? You know I’m included in that last one, right?”

Conrad lets out a terse breath though his nose. Still doesn’t look at him.

Renee casts a few raised-brow glances between Conrad and the camera. “Anythin’ else you’d like to share with the class?”

A minute shake of his head.

It’s that look Conrad has afterwards, resigned, something almost content in his posture, that finally makes it click for Renee. He freezes, feeling his shoulders sink. Suddenly struggles to process the implications of what just happened.

Was that goodbye?

For a few seconds, he forgets they’re live. Just sits there, hands still locked at the back of his head, staring into nothing. It takes a while before he’s able to gradually pull himself out of it. He clears his throat and gets to his feet, moves the chair off to the side. Wants to say something, to keep the show going, but he doesn’t know how.

Why today? Why did these big shows of defiance, this fucking declaration of martyrdom, have to come today, of all days, when Renee’s nerves are already in tatters, when the whole thing is already making him sick to his stomach?

He ends up by the table in the back, running his gloved fingers past the various objects. Eyes latch on to the syringe, waiting. The liquid encased in glass, measured out beforehand, is a clear brownish yellow. The needle is so slim, it’s barely even visible against the grain of the tabletop.

His voice sounds distant. Casual, but distant. “Hallucinogens are kind of funny,” he says. “There’s a plant called datura – it’s everywhere, it’s a weed, really. You smoke the leaves. Sometimes, it makes you trip for a few days. Other times, it triggers lifelong schizophrenia. Other times still, it just straight up kills you. Wild shit.”

He picks up the syringe, holds it carefully between two fingers as he circles back to Conrad’s side. Posture rounded as the guy pulls for comfort along the chain’s reach. His eyes are still fixed to the floor, but the muscles of his jaw are taught.

“This isn’t datura,” Renee says. “It’s not gonna drive you crazy, at least not permanently. I think,” he adds, laughing uncertainly. He can brush it off as a play on ignorance about the drug’s potency, but it’s a bait and switch. In reality, DMT isn’t all that - Renee just doesn’t know what to do.

How long is he supposed to wait for that feeling to reappear? The focus is lost, and in its place is this razor sharp amalgamation of everything and nothing at all. He can’t think.

They’ve gotta see through the act, whoever’s watching. Isn’t it fucking obvious?

Back at the fixture in the wall, he briefly pockets the syringe to haul the chain down further. The unmistakable whine from Conrad as his hands are forced upwards, arms stretching out behind him. Gasps of pain, an effort to writhe free that dissipates as he curls further forward to ease the strain on his shoulders. Soon enough, he has to stand on his toes, arms raised to the extent it looks unnatural, and Renee knows that if he keeps going, Conrad’s shoulders will both dislocate. He secures the chain then, and spends a few moments just circling, watching. Pretending.

Conrad is shaking again. The occasional jerk doesn’t seem intentional, it’s always followed by a small groan. The swelling of his face is starting to creep towards one eye, threatening to force it shut. Dried flakes of blood crack at every grimace, and the parts of his skin that aren’t dark red instead have a sheen, as beads of sweat spring from his forehead, his upper lip.

“Already out of breath, huh…?”

With all his energy spent keeping his weight off aching shoulders, it seems none can be spared for a flinch when Renee digs the syringe into Conrad’s shoulder.

Renee pushes the plunger in, slowly.

Halfway down, he hesitates. Eyes flickering.

Fuck it.

He pulls the needle out, quickly. As he trails backwards toward the camera, hands obscured from view, he drives the needle through the palm of his leather glove and bottoms out the plunger. Doesn’t feel it pinch, but he’s not sure he even would, it’s all muddled. He spins around again, grinning, and makes a show of brandishing the empty syringe to the camera before he tosses it away.

It's not penance, it doesn’t right his wrongs, and he’s not trying to dilute that fact; but maybe half and half is only fair.

Fair. Even as he picks the bat up, drags it along the floor, sees the distressed glances from the victim he circles. Fucking fair. Even as he raises it, and places the end in the middle of Conrad’s back, and pushes down.

A hoarse cry, but it’s wordless, so Renee increases the pressure. It finally draws out a “Stop – don’t.”

Renee snorts. He stops, only to come around and, drawing the bat in a wide arch behind him, he swings. The dull thud as it contacts Conrad’s abdomen, driving the wind out of him, doesn’t seem to hurt as much as the resulting full-body jerk. He trips in place, hands behind him open claws, body seizing, before he finally manages to heave in a breath. One proper cough, and a series of others that are suppressed to keep as still as possible.

The onset following an intramuscular injection is two minutes. Renee spots it in Conrad before he feels it in himself. As he circles, Conrad finally forgets the stoic act and strains to look him in the eye. Something there is dawning. A fear that feels more raw than it usually does, less inhibited. Dilated pupils which keep drifting, from Renee’s face to the bat, and eventually – to the wall behind Renee. His breath hitches in his throat, and he blinks hard, struggling to keep his gaze levelled in the same spot.

Renee brings the bat down again, overhand hit. He aims for the lower spine this time, and he doesn’t pull his weight. Conrad lets out a cry, and evidently fights the urge to not right his posture too much, as if he’s split between the pain in his back and the one in his shoulders. His voice creaks. “Please s-stop, please stop, it hurts, okay, please—”

Renee watches Conrad’s wide eyes drift again, and it’s strange. The guy keeps mumbling in that fragile, pleading way, and while it’s still presumably directed at Renee, his focus seems to be on the wall entirely.

“It hurts, okay, it hurts, it hurts—I didn’t—don’t hit me, don’t—”

He would’ve laughed. Perhaps in a past life, perhaps if he hadn’t felt it. He feels drunk, but not drunk. It’s the same lack of orientation, but missing the vital buzz. He raises the bat. He brings it down. He hears the cry of pain, the begging. Nothing.

“Stop, just stop, oh my god, please just stop—”

Whenever Renee moves, or breathes, or blinks, it feels detached, like he’s standing on one end of a tunnel, viewing reality through the pinhole at the other end. He brings the bat down, it draws out a scream, and this sequence is repeated ad nauseum, but nothing happens.

He brings the bat down, it does nothing, nobody’s there, he’s not even doing anything, he’s been dead for a while, his corpse is baking in the sun, the light is blinding, he can’t see, he doesn’t feel it, he can’t feel a thing, the sun isn’t even there, there is no sun, there is no tunnel, there is no corpse, there is no bat, but he brings it down, he doesn’t pull his weight, it’s what they want, he can be cruel, he brings it down –

It’s not until he hears the scream that Renee realizes the hollow thud of the bat against flesh was accompanied by another sound just then – a low pop of sorts, but wet-sounding, almost soggy. Gritting his teeth, he stumbles a few steps backwards, but the noise follows him, and Conrad is writhing. Something about his arm, gleaned from cries that all mesh together, the inarticulateness of his agony. The sound loops around the room like a vortex, deafeningly loud, amplified by itself like an endless feedback loop. Something about his arm.

The room is so hot. Nagging, pulsing.

Renee isn’t seeing things, but it feels like he might as well be. Feels like he’s frantically scrambling to scoop up all the fragments of something that shattered. Disorienting, nonsensical, churning. The bat slides from his palm, hitting the floor with a thunk before it rolls off to the side. He locks his hands over the nape of his neck, pacing, struggling to not fold forward, stomach lurching. He shakes his head in the hopes it’ll dislodge whatever fucking clot is causing it. He feels like a lump of butter sliding around a frying pan, slowly melting – of all the images he could’ve come up with, that’s the one that pops into his head. The ground underneath him is slippery, and whatever part of him hasn’t dissolved yet, under this kind of heat, it will.

In his periphery, Conrad’s bare feet shift. His bad leg is only supported by the toes, while the knee of the good leg bearing the brunt of his weight is visibly shaking from exertion. The strain of his body, the sweat collecting on his shirt, the blood coagulating on the floor. One shoulder is dislocated. One has to assume, given the strange way it dips in at the edge of his collarbone. Grotesque, gross-looking.

Renee lets his arms drop to his sides, shuts his eyes. Stands there for a few moments, panting, head bowed, just treading water. The fan of the server whirs dispassionately. The spotlights are hot on his back. A drop of sweat trickles down his right side, over the soft protrusion of the bottom of his ribcage. It feels like an ant snuck under all the black layers and is now crawling over his skin. Strange how the sensation stands out so much when others fight harder for dominance. The pain in his elbow, the nausea, the overwhelming bewildered sense of urgency. The ant, crawling.

Gasps for air, the creaking of exhausted pain, interspersed with the clicking of the chain at every attempt to reposition a trembling body in a way that might bring relief. Renee hears the pause, the effort to swallow, followed by a high groan, too drained to even sound afraid anymore. Groan after groan after groan.

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck. Fuck.

Renee opens his eyes. He moves quickly; he has to.

His hands shake too badly to hit the camera’s button on the first go, so he sets his jaw and yanks out its power supply instead. He doesn’t spare a glance in Davin’s direction. Nor Conrad’s, as he resolutely crosses the floor. He has to pull the chain down a bit to free the link from the fixture in the wall, prompting a scream from Conrad, which turns into a yelp when the chain is freed, and Renee lets it go entirely. Conrad crumples to the floor like a ragdoll, with no chance of bracing himself for the landing. Doesn’t make a sound when he hits; maybe he blacked out.

Renee doesn’t stop to check the aftermath. He rips the balaclava off his head as he storms out of the room. Allows himself, finally, to heave for the air he’s been lacking. It’s all static in his head as he stumbles down the stairs, a tumultuous mess of half-finished thoughts, impulses, images flashing on repeat, blood and noise and flesh and screaming, hammering against the inside of his skull. His shoulder slams into the wall when the stairs pivot along their axis, and he staggers down the last flight, tripping at the bottom, landing on his hands and knees. Crawling forward, pausing when his lurching stomach finally wins, and he retches – dry. He lets out a grunt. Manages to push himself halfway to his feet again, but then he hits the wall, slides down, presses his back against the plaster, heaving. Stars dance across his vision, feels like a visualization of the pins and needles that wash through his whole body.

His hands shake so bad, it takes him five or six tries to finally get the button of the glove undone, and when he forcefully yanks the leather off, he hears a seam somewhere rip. Brownish liquid stains his hand, mixed with sweat, thick like honey, and just as sticky. His palm is otherwise spotless. No blood, no injection site.

The needle never breached his skin.

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