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The quieter car rides put you on edge. He's chatty, likes to talk even if you still haven't worked out what responses are good yet, and the silence leaves far too much room for your own thoughts to trend towards the bleaker side. The backseat is better though, you don't care for the little glances he gives you when he thinks you aren't looking.
It's boring, almost, would be if you weren't so tightly wound. Not much to see in the darkness, nothing but vague shapes and the sound of his breathing. What is this; fourth, fifth try, maybe? You're starting to dread what follows the quiet.
With nothing better to do, you pick at a stray thread on the seatbelt and try not to wish the driver would say something. He's very insistent you wear it. Why is that the one constant in everything you've seen of him so far, that he may try to kill you later, but God forbid you forget this one thing first?
"What is it for?" You mumble, half to yourself, before he looks up at the car mirror and you realise you've spoken aloud.
"What?" Oh. You already regret this. His attention seems like a physical weight after the silence so far. You shrink in on yourself and grip the scalpel tight enough to turn your knuckles white.
"The seatbelt; what's the purpose of it?"
"What, you never been in a car before?" He asks, as you stare doggedly at the back of the front seat to avoid seeing him, lest he take your interest as confirmation of what's beginning to feel like a humiliating lack of knowledge. You're not stupid, but you certainly aren't going to give him a reason to think that. So you don't reply, don't expect any answer, really. You haven't given him anything first. "Protects you, y'know, in case the car crashes."
You nod to show you're listening, and leave it at that. But his voice is disconcertingly soft when he continues, gentle in a way that sets your teeth on edge. He's waiting for you to let your guard down.
"You get out much, buddy?"
Seconds tick by. You can almost imagine precious time wasted on what seems less and less like a better ending, sand flowing through your fingers.
"Say, where are you headed after this anyway? Got someone waiting for you?" The driver swallows, smile just on the edge of too wide. He doesn't look happy.
For some, pointless reason, you look up as he asks. "Do you need help?"
You don't speak as you shove the scalpel through his stomach, don't tell him 'It was my nature' in response to his breathless, desperate questioning. You can't make yourself do anything but watch and wish you knew the answer yourself.