Each day was the same: wake up, eat, go to counseling, do a group activity, eat, more counseling, and then sleep. Or at least, Rachel tried to sleep. No matter how many times she tossed and turned in the night, she was unable to fall unconscious. No matter how many times she tried to blank out her mind, or no matter how many times she gulped down medicine designed for this very purpose, it was pretty much useless.
Rachel sighed. She slipped out from the covers of the bed, unflinching when her feet met cold wood. Judging from the shadowy figures of the clock, it was already past midnight. Everyone else in the institute should be asleep. Even so, Rachel stood still in the middle of the room, straining her ears for any presence besides her own. She stayed like that for several minutes until she was finally convinced that no one was about to peek in.
"..." Rachel padded over to the desk and quietly slid a drawer open. There was a small compartment to it that she had discovered one day in a fit of boredom. A secret space that only the tiniest of hands could get to, perfect for hiding away items. In it, a serrated knife sat innocently, gleaming from the moonlight. Bits of it were flaking off. Some of it was rust, some of it was blood. It hardly mattered.
The knife had just appeared on her desk about a month ago, wrapped in a familiar looking handkerchief. It definitely wasn't any of the staff. It couldn't have been be any of the patients here either, how would they have known to bring it to her if found?
The only clue to the identity of the sender was a note that read,"Take good care of him" in elegant cursive. It didn't help with figuring out who brought it to her at all, nor why they used a male pronoun to refer to an inanimate object.
(It kind of made her think that they weren't referring to the knife at all.)
Rachel pressed a finger onto the knife, watching red bead like tiny droplets of dew. She couldn't do more because then her counselor would find out. Like the countless nights before it, Rachel considered taking it to her own throat and letting her blood stain the floors. No doubt it would be a hassle to get out from the wood. Although she wouldn't be the one having to worry about that.
There was no reason not to. There was something nice about death absolving her of all sins. Even if God wasn't really prevalent in her life anymore, a wretched person like her didn't deserve to live. You didn't need a Bible to know that. After all, what kind of girl murdered her own parents? What kind of girl sewed up living things for her own selfishness? What kind of girl used people for her own merits?
"I couldn't be useful to Zack, in the end," Rachel said softly. She turned the knife over in her hands. The handle was melted from the time she used it to activate the lever and the blade was chipped. All these times, Rachel thought, Zack helped me but I can't even do the same.
From what little she had managed to gather, Zack was in prison and that fact would likely never change. The staff murmured to each other that he deserved much worse. Rachel wanted to yell at them, yell that they were wrong but she knew from previous experiences that all that it would lead to were invasive questions and saccharine reassurances.
She was so sick of it all.
Still, there was a little bit of hope in her bitter heart that maybe, just maybe, Zack would smash back into her life. Like those fairy tales she had read as a child, the ones with the princes on white horses and love of all kinds. Rachel had hated those as she grew older. They described everything that she would never be able to have.
Maybe this was the same as that, then.
"Fuck you," Zack spat, his eyes glaring hatefully at the bitch who stood above him. She closed her hands around the bars of his cell. A triumphant look was disguised, but barely so. He wished he could slice her fingers off.
"Say as much as you'd like," she said. "The trial's going splendidly. Not for you, of course, but for the side of justice. By the end of today, your sentence will finally be ruled."
"Your justice is bullshit," Zack told her.
The bitch tsked. "I was hoping that the foul language would go away on its own… Although it'll no longer be a concern soon." She laughed a little, evidently amused by her terrible humour.
"Anyway, I should head back to the court proceedings. Prepare your last words, Foster." She pushed herself away from the cell and walked out, her heels clacking against stone, the noise completely disappearing when she left the prison.
Zack leaned on the wall, his head tilted back. "Dammit! I need to get out," he muttered. He grasped for his scythe before realizing that it had been long broken and abandoned in a burning ditch. So instead, Zack opted for slamming his fist on the ground.
Unexpectedly, something rattled at the impact. "The hell was that?" He squinted and turned his head sideways. A silver bobby pin lay on the ground, barely gleaming in the flickering light.
"That-" Zack immediately stopped himself. He discreetly scanned the vicinity for cameras. Sure enough, there was one in the corner watching his every move. "-was absolutely nothing, what a bother," he groused alternatively. Inside, though, Zack was cackling with glee.
That bitch must've dropped it when she was leaning over!
He masked his growing smile with a bandaged hand as he shifted around, sliding the bobby pin up his sleeve. Just you wait, Ray. I'm not about to let some brat make a liar out of me yet!
Routine, routine. As per usual, Rachel checked the surroundings before pulling out the knife, her finger tapping the dulled blade absentmindedly. It stung slightly, but it was nothing compared to what Zack was going through right now. The Reverend was right. It's all my fault. I said I would get him out, but all I did was land him behind the bars. She clenched her hands tightly, digging her fingernails into skin.
The oath she said she would bear as her own...its weight was crushing.
Today, too, would be a sleepless night.
The trial was over.
(Zack tucked the bobby pin under his bandages. Even though it stabbed at him annoyingly, it would definitely be worth it to see Ray's expression when he broke out. He couldn't wait to see what kind of interesting face she would have.)
It had been four months since she and Zack had been separated. Tonight, as usual, Rachel held the knife in her hands, her mind whispering that she should just do it; after all, nobody would do it for her. Still, the hope of rescue hung on like a leech, sucking up every thought until she put the knife down, half-heartedly promising herself that she would do it another day.
(It was a foolish hope. Perfect for a foolish girl like her.)
"For the crimes of serial murder and kidnapping, Isaac Foster…"
Zack, if you're out there, please-
"...was sentenced to death."
-save me.
"It's time." The cell doors slid open with a clang. A burly police officer grabbed Zack and immediately secured handcuffs on his wrists. From further behind, the bitch waited with a smug expression, her arms crossed.
"No need to get so touchy, Christ," Zack said for the sake of appearances. He flexed his finger, making sure the bobby pin was still there. It was.
"Hey, stop lagging behind," the police officer grunted, shoving him slightly.
Everything was in place. The actors, the props, the setting. Zack lowered his head, hiding a grin as he was led out of the cell.
Showtime.