Marinating in poison
Dave has done a lot of dumb shit this night, the first one being driving drunk. And the second one and most important, he just kidnapped someone. No, not just someone, it was Metallica's new guitarist.
He glances at the rearview mirror, at the darkened trunk, as if expecting it to spring open at any moment. Damn, Kirk Hammett is back there. It would be a lie if Dave said he didn't enjoy having so much power in his hands.
The house looms ahead, its windows dark, a silent witness to the chaos he was about to bring inside. As Dave pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, he sits for a moment in the stillness and rests his head against the steering wheel.
You’ve crossed the line now, David, he thinks; but a only bitter chuckle escapes his lips. There’s no going back from this.
He glances at the trunk one last time before stepping out and slamming the door shut.
He walks to the trunk, but hesitates for a moment, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.
His thoughts are a mess, but one thing is clear: if Kirk Hammett didn’t cooperate, he would need the help of something. His feet moved on autopilot, taking him to the front door. He fumbled with his keys and entered his house, then went straight to the small cabinet in the corner of the living room. His hands shook as he opened the drawer, revealing the cold, metallic weight of his revolver. He picked it up, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the grip. He had never used it before; never even thought about it. Well, at least not too seriously. It was supposed to be for protection, something he'd bought on a whim during a particularly paranoid night while he was most likely on coke. Maybe both. Now, it was something far darker.
Dave takes a deep breath, and shoving the revolver into his waistband, he steps back outside.
His heart races as he stands there, staring at the trunk, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the revolver for reassurance.
With a quick motion, he unlocks and opens the trunk.
Kirk was lying there, curled slightly, his face pale and drawn. His eyes flutter open, squinting against even this dim illumination. He's conscious but disoriented, a groan escaping his lips as one hand weakly presses against the side of his head where blood has dried into a thin, flaking crust.
Dave exhales sharply, gripping the edge of the trunk. "Get up," he barks.
Kirk blinks up at him, his movements sluggish. "What- what the hell…?" He mutters and looks him up and down.
Dave doesn’t wait for him to piece things together. He pulls the revolver from his waistband and points it at Kirk.
"I said, get the fuck up," Dave repeats, colder and firmer this time.
"Jesus, okay, okay," Kirk stutters, his voice shaking. "I’ll get up. Just…" He sighs. Not out of frustration, but out of fear, like he can barely believe what is happening. That's understandable. Fifteen minutes ago, he was chilling outside the theater after a great gig, smoking a cigarette, trying to ride the high that only comes from hundreds of screaming fans.
The show—his first show with these guys—had been perfect; the kind musicians dream about. Despite being the newest member of Metallica, Kirk felt it tonight, that elusive click when everything falls into place. Despite his excitement, it hadn't been easy; he'd only had a couple weeks to learn every note, but his fingers had flown over the fretboard like he had known them forever. From San Francisco, to New York to rehearse and plan the album along with the guys, to Los Angeles to have his first gig. It felt special, but the three guys were relunctant about it. It was a gig nobody wanted to be a part of except Kirk, since they only did it because their manager had set it up with months of advance and could not be re-scheduled. They would've liked to spend time on the album rather than on this show, apparently.
(James claps him on the back. "You fucking killed it tonight," he says. The words are simple but weight with an acceptance Kirk always loves to hear.
Lars smiles widely, all manic energy and flailing limbs. Cliff nods, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Not bad, Hammett, huh," he says, gripping his shoulder.
Kirk feels it; belonging. After weeks of proving himself, of living under the shadow of the guitarist he's replaced, he finally felt like maybe, just maybe, he had earned his spot.
"I told you guys it'd be nice!" Kirk says. "Such long faces and for nothing."
"We could've had a gig in New York anyway, man," Lars argues playfully. "The nine-hour fly to this shitty city wasn't necessary."
Kirk shakes his head, still smiling. James and Lars were never scared to express their disdain for L.A. Kirk understands it, more or less. They've told him the stories about how this city never treats non-glam metal bands like Metallica. But that was before, right?
Harboring remorse for things that happened in the past is meaningless.
To savor that feeling; to hold it close in the quiet darkness, away from the post-show chaos, he steps out, pulling out and lighting a cigarette. He would like a joint better, but he'll have it when he's back inside. And he'll also drink himself into oblivion. He deserves the best tonight.
He closes his eyes, breathes in the night air and thinks: I made it. Life can't get any better.
Without even realizing, a smile forms on his mouth, before he giggles it away.)
Kirk clenches his eyes shut for a second in hopes to force reality back to that moment.
Huh, it doesn't work.
Dave steps back, keeping the revolvertrained on him as he struggles to sit up, wincing with every movement.
"Move," Dave commands, gesturing towards the house with the muzzle of the revolver.
Kirk stumbles out of the trunk, his legs unsteady beneath him. The world tilts and spins, the blow to his head making even simple movements a challenge. He takes a few tentative steps forward, uncertain.
"Don't test me," Dave warns, emphasizing his point with a slight nudge of the revolver against Kirk's back.
Kirk's shoulders still tensed as he staggered toward the house, as if he's expecting another blow. Dave followed closely behind and his grip on the revolver loosened as they crossed the door.
Once inside, Dave slams the door shut and locks it, the sound reverberating with finality. Kirk turns slowly to face him.
"What… what do you want?" Kirk asks with trembling voice.
Dave doesn't answer immediately. He stares at Kirk, seeing not just the man before him but everything he represents; the friendship that was taken from him, the future that should have been his, the betrayal that cut deeper than any knife.
Dave drags a small, rickety chair from the kitchen table into the center of the living room. The legs scrape against the linoleum. Kirk thinks the sound is like from a horror movie; he doesn't know if that's objective of if it's because of the horrible atmosphere that makes him be afraid of every noise and movement.
Dave gestures with the revolver towards the chair. He clears his throat before demanding: “Sit.”
Kirk's eyes dart between the chair, the revolver, and Dave's face, calculating odds, weighing options. His breath comes in shallow pants, fear evident in every line of his body. He shakes his head. “Look, man… you don’t have to do this. Let’s just-”
“I said sit!” Dave snapped, the words echoing in the small room.
Kirk flinches, his shoulders slumping in reluctant submission as he shuffles towards the chair. He lowers himself onto it slowly, his head still throbbing in pain from the blow earlier. His mind is racing with every possible way this could end. And he truly doesn't know what to expect from this guy. That Dave guy, the one with the reputation, the one whose ghost seemed to hover at the edges of every rehearsal. He's heard enough stories from the boys to know better than to fight. The difference in their builds becomes stark now that he's sitting down; Dave seems solid as a brick wall despite his drunk state, Kirk fighting against him would be like a bird throwing itself against a window. There's something almost pitiful in the futility of it.
Dave moves quickly, his movements deliberate but hesitant, as though his mind were at war with itself. He yanks his belt free from his jeans with a harsh, metallic snap.
“Don’t fuckin' move,” he mutters.
Kirk swallows hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. “God… why? Why are you doing this?” He asks, desperate and confused. If there's anyone that deserves this it were the ones that kicked Dave out, not me, he thinks.
But Dave doesn’t respond. Because he truly doesn't have an answer for him. It's all the drugs making me not think clearly, but there's no going back from this. He thought as he looped the belt around Kirk’s chest and the back of the chair, pulling it tight. The leather creaks as it presses into Kirk’s body, pinning him in place.
Still not satisfied, Dave disappears briefly from Kirk's sight. He twists his neck, trying to see where Dave had gone, but the effort sends another sharp pang through his head. He whimpers a little from the pain.
When Dave returns, he holds a length of old rope, ratty but sturdy enough to serve its purpose, he could imagine. Without a word, he crouches in front of Kirk and begins binding his wrists to the armrests of the chair. The rough fibers scrape against Kirk’s skin as Dave secures the knots with hands that are far too practiced at tying.
Was this fucker a boy scout?
Kirk shifts uncomfortably, wincing as the bonds dug into his wrists. “You’re really going through with this, huh?” He asks, his voice wavering between defiance and disbelief.
Dave glances up at him. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I am.”
Once he's satisfied with the knots, Dave stands, taking a step back to survey his work. Kirk sits there, bound, sweating and helpless, his doe eyes glaring up at Dave. And this time the ginger is pleased to see Kirk's eyes don't look as mocking as they did on that poster; they only exude a mix of fear and anger.
“This isn’t going to end well for you, Dave,” Kirk persuades, “I bet you're smart enough to know that.”
Dave’s lips curl into a bitter smirk. “It hasn’t been going well for me for a long time, Kirk.”
He turns away, pacing briefly, as he's trying to gather his thoughts. He closes all the curtains so that no one could see the fucked up situation that's now going on inside.
“Alright,” he starts, his voice quieter now, but no less intense, “you’re gonna tell me something.”
Kirk shifs uncomfortably in his bonds, his gaze darting between Dave’s face and the revolver. “What?” He asks wearily.
“What did they say about me?" Dave's voice is deceptively quiet as he circles Kirk's chair. "When you joined the band. Did they tell you about me?”
Kirk instantly shakes his head and drops his gaze to the floor.
Dave stops pacing. “No, don’t fuck with me, of course they said something," he says, leaning down until his face is level with Kirk's. Their breath mingles in the space between them, whiskey-sour and fear-sweet. "I know they did. So tell me.”
Kirk looks away, his jaw working as though he's debating how much to say; or whether to say anything at all.
Dave’s eyes darken. He stands up straight, using every inch of his height advantage, towering over the bound guitarist. “Don’t you fuckin' play games with me, Hammett.” He waves the revolver in front of Kirk's face. “I know they said something. What was it?”
Kirk sighs, his shoulders slumping as he stares at the floor, his curly bangs covering his eyes. “Does it really matter? Why do you care?”
“Because I want to hear it. I need to hear it; from you. Not from my own head.”
Kirk hesitates again, his throat working as he swallows hard. He can see the intensity in Dave’s eyes, the kind that wouldn’t let him walk away from this conversation unscathed. Still, he really doesn’t want to answer. He knows how bad it would sound, and Dave already seems to have a problem with blaming Kirk for other people's problems.
“Spit it out!” Dave barks.
Kirk flinches, his breath hitching as he finally gave in. “Okay,” he begins, his voice trembling. “They- they told me you were- you were a drug addict. And… an alcoholic.” Kirk looked at him, pitiful, but still, he kept going, “they said you were… like, unstable.”
Dave’s jaw clenches. “Unstable.” He scoffs. “What else?”
Kirk hesitates again, but the look on Dave’s face told him there was no escape. “They said you were aggressive... Just, a psycho or something like that.”
Dave's nostrils flare as he takes a step back, his expression contorting as if he's tasted something bitter. The truth, perhaps. “And?”
Kirk shakes his head. “Nothing else…”
He isn't good at lying. And in this situation, with his heart pounding, his palms sweating and a revolver in front of him: it's truly even harder to lie.
“No. I know they said more. Tell me,” Dave insists.
Kirk bites his lip, his voice dropping even lower. “They said you weren’t… that good of a guitarist. Not good enough to keep around.” The words left his pink lips slowly, cautiously and hesitantly.
The words hang in the air, each one a dagger slicing deeper into Dave’s already hurt emotions. He stared at Kirk, his chest heaving as he processed what he had just heard.
“They said I wasn’t good enough?”
Kirk nods, his gaze falling back to the floor. “That’s what they said. I’m sorry.” Emphasis on 'they', please.
For a moment, there's only silence. Sweet but loud silence. The revolveer in Dave’s hand trembles slightly. He turns away, unable to let Kirk see whatever is breaking apart behind his eyes.
Kirk gulps audibly, his next words tumbling out in a rush of misguided compassion. “But I bet it isn't true at-”
The sentence dies unfinished. Dave's scream—primal, wordless—fills the small room as he sweeps a bottle of whiskey off the table. It hits the floor with a sound like a small explosion, glass shards and amber liquid spraying across the linoleum. The smell of alcohol rises immediately.
Dave whirls back to Kirk his eyes sparkling in hatred. “Who said that? Cliff?”
Kirk, looking down, quickly frowns and shakes his head.
“No, of course it wasn't Cliff." Dave's voice softens for a moment before hardening again. "Was it James?”
Kirk's frowns again, knowing the game now, he'll just give Dave the right look to let him know the truth.
Dave gets it. "Lars?"
Kirk's eyes flick up to meet Dave's.
Dave scoffs. “Fucking Lars. That little shit can't even play drums properly and he has the nerve to call me a shitty guitarist.”
Kirk watches Dave pacing the room, the revolver still in his hand. Every step Dave took seemed heavier, more burdened by whatever demons were clawing at his fucked up mind. Kirk’s wrists ache from the rough rope digging into his skin, but it's nothing compared to the tension coiled in his chest. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Dave. The man before him isn’t what he had expected; not the unhinged monster the others had painted in their stories.
Yes, there's anger, but there was also something else; something broken. Hurt, even.
The stories they had told him when he joined Metallica flood back, their voices clear in his memory.
(“Huh, how can I describe Dave?” James says, looking up like he's really struggling to find the words. “He’s... he's an addict. But that's not even the worst part; he’s unpredictable. You really never know when he’s gonna snap. He's just… fucking crazy.” He chuckles, the sound of James laugh already familiar.
“Yeah. Dude’s a total psycho.” Lars adds, leaning in conspiratorially “Fuck, Kirk, you’re lucky you never had to deal with that crazy son-of-a-bitch.” He smiles. “He was barely holding it together by the time we kicked him out.”
James only keeps chuckling and Cliff keeps eating his pancakes as he tries to hold a laugh.)
Kirk had nodded and smiled along at the time, absorbing their words without question. Why wouldn’t he? These were the guys who had invited him into their band, into their world.
But...
What the hell did I get myself into? Kirk thinks now, his brow furrowing as he studies Dave’s hunched shoulders and expression.
Shit, they didn’t tell me how much he cared. Or how much it hurt him.
Kirk shifts slightly in the chair, testing how tight the bonds were. The ropes held firm, and the movement only made Dave whip around, his eyes narrowing.
“Don’t,” Dave warns, his look judgeful as if Kirk were stupid for even trying.
“Alright, alright,” Kirk mutters, raising his bound hands slightly in a gesture of surrender.
Kirk licks his lips, his mouth dry. He wants to say something, anything to break the heavy silence, but he doesn’t know what would set Dave off again. Just like the guys said: he seems unpredictable. He might notice later if the other things they said about him are as true as that. But for now: one or two facts confirmed, ninety-nine more to go.
He takes a deep breath. “Look, uh, Dave,” he says cautiously, “I don’t know what they said to you before… but they didn’t seem like they hated you or anything. I think they just didn’t know how to handle you.” His voice's light, as always, but there was an edge of vulnerability to it now.
Dave stops pacing, with his back to Kirk. “Didn’t know how to handle me?” He repeats, frowning.
“Yes,” Kirk continues, trying to keep his voice steady. “They made it sound like they were… even, scared of you. Not just because of your temper, but because you were… intense. You cared so much. About the music, the band. Maybe more than they did.”
Kirk could already feel the tension rising between them. He tries to calm himself, but his heartbeat is erratic and his mind is still struggling to wrap his head around what's happening right now.
Dave turns slightly, just enough for Kirk to see the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
Kirk swallows hard, leaning into the moment. “But- but that’s not a bad thing, you know. At least, I-I don't think it is. To care. It just scared them, I think. And- maybe they didn’t know what to do with someone who cared... that much. And...” He sighs. “I don’t know.”
They both stay quiet after that.
Kirk doesn’t know if he said the right thing or if he just made everything worse, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying again.
"Dave, come on, I’m not your enemy, you know that," Kirk says softly, trying to find some way to ease the situation. "None of this is your fault. You just... you just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Kirk isn’t trying to placate him or offer excuses. He's just being himself; trying to diffuse the situation with kindness, with the hope that Dave would see there was more to life than holding onto bitterness. Kirk’s whole world has always been about the good things; the music, the camaraderie, the hope that there was always a way to fix things, to move forward. That's his copying mechanism, but he already imagined that for Dave's case it's totally the opposite.
He shifts in the chair, trying to make himself look as non-threatening as possible. He already looks non-threating. What's a skinny 5'7 boy gonna do against this 6 feet motherfucker?
But looks or build don't matter to Dave in this situation; he already considers Kirk as a threat.
"You shouldn’t keep doing this to yourself." Kirk's eyes are wide with sincerity. "It's no use, really. Let me go, and we can forget this ever happened, alright? I won't tell anyone.” He offered Dave one last warm smirk.
Dave’s hand twitches at his own side, his fingers curling around the grip of the revolver for a moment before he slowly sets it down on the table. The sudden motion is enough to make Kirk’s stomach tighten in fear.
Gotta believe my words were worth something. He straightens his posture.
But Dave just stood there, staring down at him. Kirk’s gaze softened as he met Dave’s eyes; they didn't tell Kirk much, they weren't soft in understanding, nor hard in anger like they were before, at least.
"I’m not mad at you. I know this isn’t really about me."
For a brief moment, it seemed as though Dave might listen. But then, without warning, Dave’s hand shot out and slapped Kirk across his face as hard as he could. The sound of the slap echoed in the room, louder than Kirk had expected. His head snapped to the side, and his breath caught in his throat. The sting spreads across his cheek, but it wasn’t the pain that knocked the wind out of him; it was the sheer suddenness of it.
Kirk’s heart pounds in his chest, his vision swimming for a moment. He blinks, trying to clear the haze of shock that clouds his mind.
“You think you can fucking talk to me like that?” Dave spits, his face contorted with rage. “You think you get to tell me what’s right or wrong?”
Kirk winces, trying to hold back the tears that welled up in his eyes. But damn, the slap, the fury in Dave’s voice; it hurt more than he had anticipated. It hurt because it felt like a cruel rejection, a moment of clarity where he realized Dave wasn’t broken. He was actually just a plain aggressive psycho. Just like the guys told him.
“No, no…” Kirk whispers. "I’m just trying to help you.”
But Dave isn’t listening anymore. He leans in and his hand, as if acting on its own, grabs Kirk's shit, pulling him into him. The anger in his eyes is fiery now, all-consuming. “Help me? You think I need help from you? You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be me!”
Kirk’s chest tightens as he struggles against the ropes, his pulse quickening. "I don’t–"
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Dave yells, shoving him back against the chair. The chair creaked under the force. “You don’t know what it’s like to be thrown away. To be tossed aside like trash!”
It seems like the anger has consumed him entirely, and all Kirk could do was sit there, helpless, bound to the chair, unable to make Dave see the truth.
“You’re just like the rest of them,” Dave sneers, “all of you. You think you're important and you’re just a fucking puppet. A replacement.”
Kirk’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to be part of the anger that swirled, or still swirls to this day around them. He doesn't deserve any of this. He only wants to make things right. But he realizes now that no matter how much he tries to reason with Dave, there's something inside him that wouldn’t allow it. Something dark, something he couldn’t fix with a stupid smile or words of comfort. Dave just wants to take his anger out on someone.
As Dave moves back a step, his rage still simmering, Kirk closes his eyes and lets out a slow, shaky breath. He isn’t sure what would happen next, but he knows he has to hold onto whatever hope he can find.
His cheek still throbs from the slap, the pain adding to the knot of fear that twists in his stomach. Despite all of this, and in addition to the ropes biting into his wrists, he forces himself to speak, his voice hoarse but steady.
"Dave…" He begins, his eyes locking with Dave’s, hoping to find a trace of humanity in the storm of anger that clouds his expression. "You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But what I do know is that the guys are already looking for me. You have to let me go.”
Dave shakes his head and turns his back at him, but he does’t interrupt. Kirk takes that as his cue to continue.
"They’re going to wonder where I went, where I’m at. They’ll start looking for me, and they won’t stop until they find me," Kirk's voice softens with urgency in a strange way. "I know you’re angry, I get it. But this isn’t going to end the way you want it to if you keep me here.”
Dave doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes are cold, his body tense and Kirk can tell he's struggling; struggling with the words, struggling with the rage that still simmers under his skin. The revolver is no longer in Dave's hand, but somehow that makes the small room feel more dangerous, not less, as if the violence has merely gone underground, waiting to erupt.
Kirk gulps. “They’re already looking for me, Dave,” he presses, his eyes wide, his breath quickening. “You know they are. Please, you’ve made your point. You’ve made me understand what you’re feeling. But this… this isn’t the way. Because I bet you don't even have a plan and all of it was improvised, okay? I get it, it was all a mistake.”
The words spill out of him in a rush. He isn’t sure what Dave is really capable of yet, but if he doesn’t do something soon, it could spiral out of control. He has to appeal to whatever humanity was left in Dave, whatever fragment of reason could stop this from getting worse.
"It was all the heat of the moment. Just... let me go. You don’t want this to get worse, you're smarter than that and-”
“You think I care about that?” Dave interrupts, his back still turned. "I’ve spent my life being tossed aside by everyone I’ve ever known. Everyone.” He turned back to face Kirk. "Why the hell should I care what they think? They’re the ones who abandoned me.”
For a moment, Kirk almost feels like he understands. But he can't let that stop him. Not when he's tied to a chair in the house of a man who's clearly balanced on the knife-edge of something terrible.
“I don’t know what they did to you, Dave. But you’ve got to understand, this isn’t the way to fix it. You-you can’t hold onto this forever. It’ll eat you alive so just-”
“Oh, just shut up." Dave's face twists, something primal and wounded flickering across his features. "Just shut the fuck up, alright? Shit, you're- I can't fuckin' stand you.”
Kirk’s pleading, the softness of his voice, the words of understanding; nothing he says is reaching the core of Dave's pain. Nothing is enough to quell the fury that's been building inside Dave for weeks, months, years. The self-loathing, the bitterness, the feelings of betrayal and abandonment that have been clawing at him for too long—they need release. All he can hear now is the echo of his past mistakes, the times he's been discarded, the rejection that follows him like a shadow.
And it isn't just Kirk, or Metallica, or the band. It's everything. It's life itself. It's the world that has left him behind, again and again and again.
Dave's gaze drifts to the nearby counter, where a small blade gleams under the harsh kitchen light. It isn’t a big knife, but it's more than sharp enough to cut through flesh, through his anger, and through the thoughts clouding his mind.
He reaches for it, wraps his calloused fingers around the handle. The knife feels good in his hand. Solid. Real. Something he can control when everything else is slipping away. He slowly walks toward Kirk, whose eyes widen as Dave flicks the blade open with practiced ease. "Dave-"
"Shut up," Dave says again, but the fury has burned away, leaving something colder, more calculating in its place. His breath comes in shallow pants, like he's just run a mile. "You don't get to talk anymore."
Kirk's chest tightens, panic rising in his throat like bile. He can feel the darkness gathering in Dave, can see it in the way his eyes have gone distant, unfocused.
"You want me to let you go?" Dave's voice is barely a whisper, but it fills the room. "You think your sweet, cute little words can fix all this?" He leans in close, close enough that Kirk can smell the alcohol on his breath. "You think you can talk your way out of this the way you talked your way into Metallica?"
Kirk tries to speak, but it comes out all breathy and shaky: "Dave, please-"
The Dave moves faster than Kirk can track. One moment, his hands are at his side, the next, his fingers on his left hand tangling in Kirk's hair, yanking his head back with enough force to expose his throat. And the blade being held by the right one is pressed against his cheekbone, just below his eye. Not cutting—not yet—but the threat is clear as crystal. Kirk freezes, breath caught in his throat, muscles locked in place.
"Yeah, that's right," Dave murmurs, a twisted smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Keep fucking talking. You want to keep spouting your bullshit to me? Huh?"
Kirk squeezes his eyes shut as the blade drags across his skin in a painfully slow motion, not hard enough to cut deep, but enough to leave a thin red line in its wake. The wound stings, sharp and immediate, but Kirk refuses to cry out. He won't give Dave that satisfaction. Instead, he opens his eyes and stares up at his captor, eyes wide but steady.
"No, Dave," he says, and his voice is steadier than he expected. "Listen to me-"
"Shit, you never shut your fucking mouth, do you, Kirk?" There's a wild light in Dave's eyes now, something manic and dangerous. "You think I give a fuck about what you have to say?
His fingers tighten around the knife, knuckles going white. He wants to hear Kirk beg. He wants to hear the fear, the regret, the acknowledgment that Kirk has crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.
"So I dare you, Kirk Hammett," he hisses, leaning in close enough that Kirk can feel his breath hot against his face. "I dare you to try to convince me again. Tell me why I shouldn't just end this right here. Right now."
"Dave, I'm-I'm not your enemy. This is about you, not me. You're angry at the wrong people. You- don't- don't take it out on me."
Dave's expression twists with disgust. "You're all the same, aren't you?" he spits. "You think you can fix me with a couple of cheesy-ass words?"
Kirk's heart is pounding in his chest as he desperately tries to find the right words. "I just... want you to stop hurting, Dave. You shouldn't destroy yourself over something that's- that's already in the past."
Dave’s gaze burns into him, and for a moment, it seems like the anger would consume him completely. The words Kirk had spoken, the pleading, the soft insistence; had all fallen on deaf ears.
Without another word, Dave slides the knife across Kirk's cheekbone in one swift, quick motion. The pain is sharp and sudden, making Kirk gasp. His eyes clench shut as the blade draws a thin line of blood, deep enough to make his head swim.
Dave pulls the blade away, his eyes cold and calculating as he watches the blood well up and begin to drip down Kirk's face.
"Don't you fucking pretend like you care about me," he hisses, voice dripping with disdain as he wipes the blade clean on his jeans. "All that bullshit you're talking, Kirk, it-it means nothing. Nothing at all."
Kirk winces as the warm blood trickles down his face, following the contour of his cheek before dropping onto his shirt collar. His heart hammers in his chest, his mind racing. The sting of the cut is a brutal reminder of how quickly everything has spiraled out of control.
Dave steps back, knife still in hand, watching Kirk with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen. "You're not special, you know that?" he says, voice low and flat. "You're just the first one who was stupid enough to take my place in that shitty band."
The blood trickles down Kirk's cheek in a steady stream now, warm and wet against his skin. Each heartbeat sends a new wave of pain radiating from the cut. He blinks rapidly, trying to process what just happened. One moment they were talking, and the next-
Dave watches him with cold detachment, the bloodied knife still in his hand. There's something in his eyes that Kirk can't quite read; satisfaction, maybe. Or disappointment. As if he expected more from this moment. More resistance. More fear. More of something Kirk hasn't given him.
Kirk's mind races. He needs to de-escalate. Now.
"Dave," he says, his voice shaking despite his efforts to control it. "I need- I need... help." Kirk tries to shift in the chair, feeling the warm wetness spread across his cheek and down his neck. The pain is sharpening, becoming more insistent. "My head. It's still bleeding from when you hit me earlier. And now my face..."
Dave doesn't move immediately. He stands there, knife dangling loosely from his fingers, eyes narrowed as he studies Kirk like an insect under glass. Finally, he groans.
"Okay? What you want me to do about it?" His voice is flat, uninterested, but there's a tremor beneath the surface. The adrenaline is wearing off, reality setting in.
Blood drips onto Kirk's shirt collar, staining the fabric a dark red. He swallows, throat dry. "Just... stop the bleeding. Please. I'm getting dizzy and it- it really hurts." He winces to get his point across. The admission of weakness costs him, but Kirk knows he has no choice. He has to connect with whatever humanity remains in Dave. Has to find common ground. "I know you don't care, but-"
"You're right. I don't."
But Dave's eyes flick to the blood on Kirk's face, and something shifts in his expression. Not remorse; nothing so simple. It's only the look of a man suddenly aware of the consequences of his actions. Dave turns away abruptly, moving to a heap of clothes in the corner of the room. He grabs an old T-shirt, tears it roughly into strips. His movements are jerky, mechanical. In his head, he's trying to justify what he's doing. Telling himself he's not helping Kirk out of kindness. He just doesn't want blood all over his floor. Doesn't want evidence of what he's done. Doesn't want a mess to clean up.
What on earth are you even doing, Mustaine?
He ignores the voice. Shoves it down where all the other uncomfortable thoughts go.
Dave returns to Kirk, strips of cloth in hand. His expression is hard, unreadable. "Hold still," he mutters, more command than suggestion.
The first touch makes Kirk flinch. Dave's hands are rough, calloused from years of guitar playing, and they handle Kirk with the same careless precision he'd use to tune an instrument. Not gentle, but not deliberately cruel either. Functional.
"You're wrong if you think I care about your wound," Dave says, voice low as he wipes blood from Kirk's face. His words lack the heat from before. They sound rehearsed, like lines he feels obligated to deliver. "You better hope it doesn't get infected."
He wiped and cleaned Kirk’s head with rough hands with one piece of cloth, and although his movements were quick and brusque, there was a strange tenderness in the way he dabbed at the wound. Maybe Dave sees it, the genuine fear in Kirk's eyes. The confusion. The pain that he, Dave, has caused. Even in his drunk state he could recognize that enough is enough. He lazily put a patch on his head, only to stop it from bleeding more.
"Now shut up," Dave says, stepping back to survey his work. His voice lacks conviction, the fire from earlier reduced to embers. "I've had enough of your bullshit for tonight. I'm going to sleep."
He takes one more strip of cloth and, without warning, ties it around Kirk's head, covering his mouth. The gag is tight, but not cruel; just enough to ensure Kirk can't call for help.
Kirk makes a muffled sound of protest as he frowns, but it's futile. His eyes plead instead, wide and questioning. What happens now?
He tries to gather his bearings, the pain still gnawing at him, but he knew the danger wasn’t over. Dave had hurt him. And for a moment, Kirk knew for a fact he’d do it again.
Dave turned and threw himself onto the couch near Kirk, his body collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh, as if he’d finally allowed himself to relax after all this.
Kirk stayed where he was, bound and gagged, his eyes on the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts. The pain in his head and face a constant reminder of how quickly life can spin out of control. Minutes ago, he was celebrating his first gig with Metallica. Now he's bleeding in the living room of the man he replaced, with no guarantee he'll ever make it out.
Across the room, Dave lies still, but his mind races. What now? He hadn't planned this. Hadn't thought beyond getting his hands on the guy who took his spot. The spot that was rightfully his. But now what? He can't keep Kirk here forever. Can't let him go, either. Every option leads to trouble, to consequences he's not ready to face.
Dave's voice cuts through the silence, low and tired. "Hey, don't make any noise. Don't try to move. You're gonna stay here and sleep. You ain't going nowhere."
Kirk feels the words like a sentence. His body aches with exhaustion, but his mind is a whirlwind of questions and fears. The ropes bite into his wrists and ankles. The gag dries his mouth. The wounds throb with each heartbeat. But worse than the physical discomfort is the crushing weight of helplessness.
He has no idea how long Dave plans to keep him here, in this house that smells of cigarettes and cheap booze and now, his own blood. He has no idea what Dave will do when he wakes up tomorrow, whether the night's sleep will calm his rage or feed it. He has no idea if anyone is looking for him yet. James, Cliff and Lars? They barely know him. Would they even look for him, or would they just find another guitarist to replace him? Another body to fill the space? He told Dave otherwise, sounding very certain about someone looking for him, but the truth is; he can't know if anyone has even noticed he's missing. Realistically, the guys are probably too drunk or high right now to even get one word out.
All Kirk knows is that he didn't sign up for this. He just wanted to play guitar, to join a band, to live the dream he spent his life chasing. He didn't ask to be the focal point of Dave Mustaine's rage, the target of his pain.
He closes his eyes for a moment, but the images won’t fade. They only get worse. His mind drifts to the people who he knows for sure care about him; the ones who would definitely wonder where he had gone. His family. What would they think when they noticed he was missing? They would be frantic, wouldn’t they? They’d try to piece together what happened, and eventually, hopefully, they would find out. But what would they do when they discovered the truth?
The thought sends a chill through him that has nothing to do with the cold room. What if no one comes? What if no one even notices? What if this is where his story ends; not on a stage with thousands of fans screaming his name, but in a dingy room with a man who hates him for taking something that was never his to begin with? Kirk tries to steady his breathing, to push down the panic rising in his chest. He needs to stay calm. To think clearly. To survive until morning, and then...and then what?
Well, all he can do is wait and hope that somewhere, someone is wondering where Kirk Hammett has gone. That someone cares enough to come looking. That someone finds him before Dave's unstable rage boils over again, before the knife finds more than just his cheek.
Dave doesn’t seem like he planned his kidnapping at all, so he has no way of knowing what Dave is capable of.
Kirk squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing, willing the panic to subside, but it wouldn’t. It couldn’t. Not yet.
Across the room, Dave's breathing has steadied, slowed. He's asleep, or pretending to be. Either way, Kirk is alone with his thoughts, with his fear, with the dawning realization that his life is no longer his own. Everything Kirk had once believed about his future, about his life, felt like it was slipping away. And the longer he stayed here, the more he wondered: Would he even make it out alive?