Chapter 9: Little Girl
There was nothing but the distant sound of radio chatter and static left in her mind. Ray's lips were pressed together in a thin line, unbreathing as she tried her hardest to discern the words relayed to her. For some reason, she just couldn't seem to understand.
"Late Saturday evening, June 10th, twenty-four year old Jameson Faraday was found dead in his home, brutally dismembered and covered in multiple fatal lacerations. While an investigation is still underway, due to the nature of the crime, it's believed to be the work of the escaped convict and known serial killer, Isaac Foster, who is still on the run after escaping prison sentence and kidnapping thirteen-year-old Rachel Gardner."
Yep, checks out.
She was keeping up, good so far.
"In addition, found at the same crime scene was sixteen-year-old Annabelle Valentine, unconscious and battered. Valentine worked as a housekeeper at the Faraday estate, orphaned for plus-four years. While her condition was less severe, the damage found suggests that she faced some manner of debilitating asphyxiation. She received blunt-force trauma to the head, rendering her in critical condition, as well as evidence to suggest Valentine may have suffered sexual molestation in the twenty-four hours prior. As of the latest reports, it's unknown if she will be able to make a full recovery. She has currently fallen into a comatose state, and doctors are saying there's slim chance Valentine will survive or wake."
Radio static. Radio static. Radio static.
She didn't understand.
"While unconfirmed, police believe this may suggest a development in the Back Alley Murderer case, as before now, there has never been an identifiable pattern linked between Foster's victims. Both Rachel Gardner and Annabelle Valentine were young, orphaned teenage girls of similar age, and he has chosen to allow them to live under controlled circumstances. While Gardner attested to having not been harmed in sexual motivation, it's not unlikely that—"
A loud clatter of shattering plastic filled the room alongside a metallic slam. In the middle of the dining table she sat at, the F.M. radio she'd been listing to broke into a million pieces, the blunt end of sterling scythe fallen firmly upon it. Ray didn't so much as flinch, even as a little fleck of plastic bounced off her cheek, but after a moment, she looked up to the man at her side.
"You could have just turned it off."
Zack narrowed his eyes at her, a dismissive "tch" hissed through grit teeth. He propped his scythe against the wall, walking over to the nearby fridge. "Maybe you shouldn't'a turned it on in the first place."
Yep, you guessed it. He was still angry.
She supposed she couldn't blame him, at least for the radio—his already infamous name being slandered by false allegations. Regardless, the reason he was still so frustrated with Rachel herself seemed to be something beyond her understanding, she'd asked him about it a couple times, only ever being met frustration and dismissal. For a self-proclaimed "cold-hearted" killer, he sure was sensitive.
But, right now, it wasn't something she could focus on. Rachel said nothing else to him, already knowing he was ready to fight about anything she could possibly say, even if it was casual and unrelated. The girl lowered her head, pressing her cheek to the cold, wooden table, weary gaze zoning out to the twilight sky beyond the clean, clear windowpane.
They'd been staying at a small house a few miles from Faraday manor, the place Zack stowed away while Ray did her investigation. By the scribbled-on calendar in the kitchen, presumably the couple it belonged to must have been on vacation or traveling (and lucky for them, for if Zack had wanted to stay and they weren't gone, they'd probably be dead in the middle of the floor.) Zack, already preparing himself a bowl of cereal, sat down at the small table across from her.
After a moment, Ray gave a sigh, taking her cue to stand, turning towards the doorway leading to the front room. She'd gotten but only a footsteps before a voice called out to her, "Hey." Ray stopped, acknowledging she'd clearly heard him, but saying nothing. "Eat something."
"Not hungry," she said simply, but when was she ever?
"Don't give a shit," he quipped. She'd not eaten anything the night prior, and with how frail she was on the average day, he didn't need her passing out on him when they had a full agenda like this evening. "I told you to eat something, so eat something," he repeated, to which Ray looked over her shoulder, her vacant look betraying any liveliness her next answer would've otherwise insinuated.
"Are you my chaperone now?"
Naturally, Zack was almost taken aback by the mild sass, jaw growing slack for a moment with a mouthful of cereal, but instantly on the defensive, he snapped back, "'The fuck is your problem?" His words were almost overlapped by her instantaneous response, a moderate "nothing" ushered beneath her breath. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought she was even pouting as she turned away.
Ray could hear him mutter a few select curse words as she walked off, the likes of which her parents would've slapped her on the wrist for saying, the sound of ceramic shattering on the floor thereafter. He probably threw a fit, breaking his bowl or something like that (she'd be more surprised if he hadn't.)
Slipping on her boots, she left through the front door, only to sit at her lonesome upon the porch swing. Gripping the chainlink that held the lofted bench in place, she leaned her forehead against the cold metal, where she'd sat unmoving for the next hour or so before they'd get on with business as usual at nightfall. All the while, the news reporter's voice replayed the broadcast in her mind.
"Annabelle Valentine," "critical condition," "comatose," "unlikely to survive".
By the hand of a serial killer, but not at the hand of Isaac Foster.
"Amen."
Lashes parted to expose vacant, azure optics, those taking place of the absent new moon. The young woman's petite palms had yet to lower to her sides even as her final prayer for their sacrifice concluded with Zack's slow. He huffed, falling from the rush of the kill, but Ray wasn't so quick to fall from hers. The only thing that drowned out that awful static was the one thing that ever had.
Let me be saved.
Let me be saved.
Let me be—
"Y-You monster!"
Ray's lashes parted, only just now examining the scene post-Foster, and while she could hear his breathing from over her shoulder, he wasn't the one who had caught her attention. Before Ray stood a teenage boy, shadow cast across the long, dingy parking garage. He looked to be a bit older than Ray, but still younger than Zack.
Oh. This must've been the person they were saving.
She'd learned his name yesterday (or wait, maybe it was the day before?) but amongst her fuzzy thoughts, she couldn't quite remember it. John? Jim? Juan? Regardless, Ray tilted her head to the side, perplexed by what he'd said. "What?" she asked simply, seeming little more than confused.
"Y-You killed him!" he shouted. "You killed my brother!"
At the claim, Ray peeked over her shoulder to Zack, then down to the body he loomed over. Yes, she thought simply. That's exactly what they'd done.
While Ray had been about her own business at the manor, she'd asked Zack to do some looking into the underground drug network of this city, which they both knew was pretty prominent and not to be trifled with lightly. Did they have a target in mind? No, not specifically, just someone or anyone who would do for now. At first, she though maybe the known drug lord mention in Ray's father's files would be a good choice, but that lead had fallen through, however proving a good place to start, and while in theory it may not have been the most efficient way to go about things, practice was just fine.
After all, if there was one thing Isaac Foster excelled at, it was finding trouble in a back alley, and where better place to shoot up?
Before long, Zack had met a boy, presumably this boy, the one glaring at Ray from across the dark. Despite his age, dealing with him had almost proven easier than any adult, because he didn't recognize Foster by his public alias; kids rarely spent their time watching the news for any and all updates on whatever serial murderer was hot at the time (well, you know, unless they were so insane and freakish that they had to be stuck in a mental ward and also maybe they had blonde hair, dead eyes, stood four-foot-four with an unhealthy relationship towards death,) and while he scared him at first, definitely he scared him, it turned out the kid was on the run from something worse.
After having sold out his brother's girlfriend in an exchange gone wrong, supposedly to save the older brother himself, she was now facing life in prison. The older clearly didn't feel so dedicated to the younger, however, as his only gratitude was a target placed upon his sibling's head. Seemed legit enough to Zack, so he ran the prospect by Ray, who approved, for as he had so gracefully put it, "nothin' like a little hot nasty snatch to turn a fuckin' druggie to familicide", right? They quickly located their victim, the elder brother, and told him they could bring his target in for the right price, little did he know what that price was. With plans all set up, tied nice and clean in a pretty little bow, they'd made arrangement to meet today, and, well…
You could see how things turned out.
Ray turned back to the corpse. Was he confused about something? "He was going to kill you, wasn't he?" Oh, or wait—did Zack get the facts wrong? Goodness, she hoped not. That'd be quite a mess.
"We've been through worse! I could'a talked to him, something—anything! We coulda tried to work it out," the boy grit his teeth. Ray stared back at him with a soulless stare.
"Sometimes, things don't work out."
Predictably, he didn't wanna hear it. "If it had to be me or him," he shouted, marching to take a step towards Rachel, who only canted her head to the side, unsure why he seemed so mad, "then it shoulda been me."
"We can still make that happen." From over Ray's shoulder, Zack reminded the both of them that, hey, guess what, he was still there too, covered in blood and itchin' for more. Instantly terrified, the boy's rage shifted with fear, and not only did his advance on Rachel cease, he stumbled back a bit, falling to the ground on his backside. Foster took a step to stand over him, lowering his scythe's edge towards the teenager's neck.
"S'what I thought," he said. "Now, here's how this is gonna go. You're gonna take whatever second-hand needle you've got in your pocket, turn around, run your junkie-ass home to mommy, then shoot up and forget you ever saw us."
Beyond whatever hatred the boy felt, it was eclipsed by a mighty and reasonable terror. Hastily, he shuffled back and stumbled to his feet. Without another glance, whining and cowering, he jolted away.
Rachel only sighed inaudibly, now perplexed, this being the last thing she needed to deal with today.
"Ungrateful little shit," Zack muttered beneath his breath. In the distance, one could already hear the blare of sirens, giving the vigilantes their cue as well. He turned beyond the girl, no more cheerful from earlier, bumping his shoulder to hers brashly as he pushed past. "Let's go," he muttered.
She peeked to him from the corner of her eye, and for just a moment longer, Rachel pretended she hadn't heard him. Truthfully, part of her was hoping he'd lighten up a bit after his slaughter, but it'd seem that little changed. Instead, the child looked down to the dead man, less obliterated than the last one, but still, without a doubt, never to move again. Dealing drugs must've been a complicated profession.
Knowing she may as well loot him, and it'd probably be a huge waste not to, Ray knelt down and reached forward. In the man's jean jacket pocket, she pulled out his wallet and a roll of dollar bills that couldn't fit in it. Just like she'd assumed, he had a lot of money. There was also a burner flip-phone, a half-pack of gum, a small, smooth plastic wrapper the shape of a square with something circular inside that she has a feeling she did not want to double check, and then, however abruptly, she stopped, feeling the presence of something else on his person.
Something more sinister.
"It should've been me!"
Her gaze befell the man's left arm, still in one piece, unlike the other. The veins in the crook of his elbow were clearly recently prodded with needles, as one may assume. "Ey!" Zack called back to her, voice dragging her from his daze. "The fuck's the hold up? I said let's go!" Rolling her eyes, she sighed, feeling like a dead body would still be better company than Zack's right now. Regardless, the girl rose to stand, shoving into her satchel the phone and cash. Just like that, she turned, following with haste in the murderer's wake.
Her other hand, however, slowly slipped that sinister something else into her own pocket.
Back at the house, Zack and Ray sat together in the living room, Zack laying back on the couch near an electric fan, wearing only his wraps and jeans with his mid-drift exposed. The modest home didn't have air conditioning, and he was clearly too warm, but even if Rachel couldn't assume as much from his appearance, his repeated complains about the weather were a good indication. She sat on the floor in front him, at the central coffee table, looking through her father's police files for maybe the twentieth time. Zack flipped through T.V. stations while she did, neither coming across anything that looked even mildly interesting in their designated respects.
"—ome on down to—" infomercial, no, click, "—ove you, I just wanted to be yo—" cheesy soap opera, no, click, "—for trouble sleeping, try th—" no, click, "—as of this morning, Valentine ha—" no, click, "—there's not—"
"Wait," Ray looked up, eyes locking to the television set, "go back."
"Sorry, kid. My remote, my choice," he replied, as if he actually lived there. Her eyes narrowed as he'd already flipped through more stations. Turning, she snatched the control from him, not bothering to ask this time. "Hey!" he shouted as she began turning back stations, ignoring his protests.
The news station picked back up, but by the time she turned back, the statement of interest had passed. Instead, Ray narrowed her eyes intently, reading the text scrolling at the bottom of the screen. Teenage girl assaulted and left in critical condition, killer on the—
Before she could finish the message, Zack grabbed the remote roughly from her hands, aiming it back at the screen and flipping channels about his business again. Ray looked back to him, brow knit together. "I wanted to watch that," she said, tone a little more intent than normal.
"Yeah, well, you know what they say about children and too much T.V. Bad for development, promotes violent behavior," he huffed a humorless laugh, never looking away from the screen. "Wouldn't want you to become a serial killer or something."
In the corner of his vision, he saw her shoulders tense. "Turn it back."
"Or what?" he scoffed. "Ya gonna hit me?"
She was starting to think about it.
Standing up, Ray marched right over to the television set, reaching behind the device and pulling the plug from the wall outlet. Zack let out another "hey!" as he sat up and gestured with his hand. "The fuck was that for!?"
"You weren't even watching anything," she said, to which his brow knit together and he leered at her upon recognizing the same tone she'd taken with him earlier.
Ray could tell his wick was quickly burning at both ends.
"Look, I don't know what the hell is up with you today," he began, "if your dead dumpy mug didn't get enough beauty sleep, you're on the rag or whatever," (Ray almost rolled her eyes, guessing he probably didn't even understand what that really was,) "but you need to get over it and stop throwin' a little bitchfit."
Emotionlessly, Ray glowered.
"That's funny, coming from you."
The words had bounded from her lips without missing a single beat, and Zack, again, was almost take aback. Regardless, as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment for days, or hell, since the second they'd met, he rose to his feet, expression genuine with anger now. He grit his teeth and took a step closer, leering down as he towered over her, and anyone else would be reasonably threatened in this situation, but Rachel didn't so much as flinch. "Say that again, you little—"
"Looks like I hit a nerve," she deadpanned, and oh, she sure did.
Instead of indulging the full-body urge to grab her by the scruff and hang her from the coat rack, he shouted in her face instead. "What the hell is your problem, Ray!?"
"What's yours?" she snapped back, tone remaining calm and collected as ever despite the intent behind her reply. Zack spouted a false laugh, anything but entertained.
"I'll give ya a hint! It's a twelve-year-old brat with a death wish and nothin' goin' on upstairs!" He pointed to the side of his head, even the minut gesture seeming aggressive. "Gettin' real sick of this shit, Ray!"
That made two of them.
"What are you going to do," she parroted him, monotone voice no less taunting as she took a step forward, and he instinctually took a step back, "hit me?"
For a long moment, Zack stood with building tension, clenching his palms and gritting his teeth. Finally, he exhaled in frustration. "Geezus fuckin' Christ," he growled, releasing the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, dragging his hands down his face, explosive frustration getting dangerously hard to control. She wanted to play that game? Fine.
In the blink of an eye, he turned, grabbing his hoodie aggressively from the couch and marching towards the back door. "Where are you going?" asked Ray suddenly, alerted, brow knitting together, a slight frown showing upon her expression. She followed a few steps behind him.
"None of your damn business, that's where," not that he had any idea himself. He didn't smoke, but damn if he didn't feel like this would be the perfect time to start (but why take for granted his perfect health when he could just slit some drunk fuck's throat?) He stepped into his boots and grabbed his scythe, slinging it over his shoulder before kicking the door open.
Ray called after Zack, clearly with the intent to try and stop him, "It's light out, you can't—"
"What are you, my chaperone now?" he mocked her in turn, cutting her off abruptly, turning and gesturing with arms wide open. She halted in place just as suddenly. "Get off my back, dumb bitch."
Ray blinked, brow knitting together, not offended per-se, but perhaps somewhat taken aback.
Turning back around, Zack walked off angrily and at a brisk pace, quickly out of sight as Ray stood alone and at a loss. There was part of her that wanted to follow him, but she also heard his unspoken warning loud and clear: don't. Slowly, she turned, taking a few steps back inside almost sullen, like a petulant child who'd just been put in timeout. Forever out of touch with the feelings in her heart, Ray felt bewildered with herself. She hadn't acted-out like that in years, if ever, her parents making absolutely certain that she'd quickly learn to remain quiet in a conflict. What was going on with her right now? She had no clue.
What was even worse? She felt like she understood Zack even less.
A few hours thereafter, Ray simply laid back on the same couch Zack had been earlier, beside the same electric fan, with same dull chatter from the T.V. she wasn't actually watching, and the same frustration he'd felt towards her, too. She stared up at the ceiling.
It felt kind of silly, the argument at all, for as soon as he'd left, Ray turned the station back to local news, and there was no updates on Anne's condition on the situation. It was just talk of Zack still, more wild and outlandish theories of his motives and intentions. Of course, there was part of her that felt bad, felt for him having to listen to the one thing he hated, lies, but she couldn't help wondering if there was more to it than that. He'd never cared about the way people say him before now, right?
Or was it not that he cared about the public's opinion, but someone else's entirely?
Ray rolled over, slowly standing up without a sound. She looked up to the clock on the wall, feeling a little anxious as the seconds passed on—was he just going to stay gone forever? He knew that this was supposed to be their last day here according to the family's schedule, presumably be back tomorrow night, but Ray couldn't help feeling nervous, like maybe he'd forgotten, or worse, didn't care. She couldn't help but feel like luck had just been out to get her lately: first Faraday and Anne, then then the boy they saved today.
Now, Zack.
Somehow, she'd never seen him so worked-up, even if she'd seen him mad, of course had she seen him mad, but never with such personal offense. Was it selfish to not give him his way, to fuss at him and feel frustrated too? It wasn't like he'd be able to do anything about his anger, at least the way he usually coped: with his scythe. Ray had said and done everything knowing he wouldn't kill her—couldn't kill her, no matter how angry he became.
To that extent, it felt cruel—like a house fire, and he was trapped on the topmost floor.
Slowly, almost dazed and lost, her footsteps led her upstairs, to the master bedroom. The light coat she'd been wearing earlier lay on the large mattress, and she looked down the article of clothing: just like before, there remained something in her pocket, something very curious. Reaching in, she took the item in hand once more; it was a small, glass cylinder, a steel needle covered in a plastic tip.
A syringe, filled to the max with some kind of substance.
The corners of her mouth twitched downwards into the most half-hearted frown she could muster. She peered back to the clock on the nightstand, time passing by at an agonizingly slow pace. Slowly, she pulled off the needle cap, therein staring at the sterling point from base to peak. Unlike any other child her age, she felt nothing akin to phobia or fear at the sight. There was only one worry on her mind right now.
It almost felt familiar, like it were just yesterday when Zack held not one but two just like this in his own hand, staring at her from the other side of the prison bars. "I'll let you use me just this once," but it was starting to feel like it was more than just once.
With reckless abandon, she needn't think twice before plunging the point into the crook of her arm, pulling the tab and injecting its contents into her skin.
No show of pain or reluctance showed on her visage, but the sensation did remind Rachel of a far off memory, perhaps one of her earliest. She had contracted some notable illness or another, but it had almost made her happy, because it made her parents pay attention enough to bring her to a clinic. They had needed to give her an antibiotic, and the shot had made her cry at the time, but at this point in life, she couldn't quite fathom why. Regardless, a younger her deemed it worthy of tears.
Now, she only looked on with an intense expression, as if it were just another matter of business. One minute passed, then two, so on. When no instant sense of either gratification nor pain came, she couldn't help but question the choice, the reason so many people did this, looking up to her reflection in the mirror. Maybe this was just another thing she'd never be able to understand.
Suddenly, however, it dawned on her that there was not just her own visage she gazed upon.
Including herself, there was not one, two, three, but a whopping four different figures staring back at Ray.
She couldn't discern their faces as they were covered in shadow, but in her heart, she felt like she knew them all and she just couldn't remember for some reason. A long moment passed, and seemingly nothing happened as Rachel was only confused, and then, the tallest silhouette leaned towards her, whispering in her ear.
It was a man's voice, a friendly voice, an eager voice: "Who are you?"
Her gaze went wide. For a moment, she held her breath, clearly confused. Was this real, or another illusion? It certainly felt real. "I'm... Rachel," she answered regardless. "Rachel Gardner."
Another voice chimed in, a boy's voice, a chipper voice, a flirty voice: "Why are you here?"
"Here?" she exhaled softly. Ray peered from side of side, then down at her arm. Only just realizing she hadn't removed the needle from her skin, she pulled it out and went lax. Again, she looked back to the reflection. "Because... Zack left me alone."
Lastly resounded a woman, an adult, an authority, a confidence: "Why?"
Suddenly, she remembered why the situation felt so familiar. Her eidetic memory was both a blessing and curse. "Because, he," her breath got caught in her throat, "because, because—I…"
A beat.
For some reason, she couldn't answer. Without a response, the three voices resounded in unison now, again: "Why?" A beat, nothing. Again, louder: "Why?"
A beat.
"Because—"
Louder: "Why?
A beat. A beat, a beat."Why!"
Abeatabeatabeat— "Why! Why! Why! Why! Whywhywhywhywhy—"
Groaning as if she were suddenly in pain, Rachel clamped her hands over her ears as the noise was only growing more intense. "S... Stop it," she muttered quietly, but no relief came, the question only burning louder, and aggressive, accusatory, louder, and resentful, louder, and louder, louder louder. "Stop it!"
Then, there was only deafening silence.
It was like a flatline on a pulse monitor, one hooked up to her own heart, only ever resuscitated by a familiar voice: a dark voice, a comforting voice, a hateful voice, an angelic voice, and one she fully recognized. That of her killer, whispered heinously into her ear.
"Why?" asked Isaac Foster.
The syringe slipped from her hand, quietly shattering into a million pieces on the floor. Rachel gasped and pivoted on her heel, but when she turned around, he wasn't there. No one there—not one person, much less four. Distressed and confused, a drop of sweat slid down the side of her head. The girl slammed she her eyes, as if to block it all out. "Because," she exhaled shakily, feeling like she had no choice but to answer now, "because—!"
"Because you deserve to be alone."
A diabolically tender voice rang out, and Rachel's breath was taken as an older man now stood before her, fashioning a lab coat, classes, and three different eyes.
Doctor Daniel Dickens.
"Isn't that right, Rachel?" He took her arm in hand, carefully stroking his thumb over the spot where she'd injected herself. Ray flinched, it hurt a little. "You've been bad," he merely smiled, as if what he'd said bore no weight at all, as if it were just a fact of life, business as usual. "You're still causing problems, aren't you?"
Ray looked as if she'd seen a ghost, and oh so poetically, her eyes grew wide with a frightfully vacant wonder. A sharp breath filled Ray's lungs, her lips parting to give a reply, an answer, an excuse, anything—when suddenly she was cut off by a cackle, and iconic one, that of Catherine Ward.
"Oh, Rachel," she hummed, condescending as always, "did you really think it'd be that easy?" The sensation of a gloved palm was felt beneath her chin. "You're a smart girl. You already know, don't you? That a hollow needle and a little remorse isn't going to do," leaning over, she pinched Ray's cheek roughly, "a bad little girl like you any good." Again, a wild laugh filled the air as she let go of the skin beneath her fingertips, like if this whole situation were just the funniest thing in the world.
"Were you just born bad, Rachel?" asked the last voice, the child, Edward Mason, maybe the only person who had ever wanted to be with her, however conditionally. Demure, the took her hands in his own, swaying in place bashfully. She looked at the odd, circular mask, beneath which an emerald iris stared back. "You love to making the people around you suffer, don't you?" He squeezed her hands so tight, it began to get uncomfortable. "Everyone, your parents, us, me!" He vanished from her side in the blink of an eye, sentiments remaining like an afterthought. "And now—"
"Me," whispered Zack.
Sweat gathered thick on the back of Ray's neck, all but petrified before forcing herself to shuffle around, calling out to him, louder than before, louder than usual, with a sense of urgency she almost did know. "Zack!" she beckoned, but just like before, there was no response. Panic began showing clear on her visage, unable to understand at all what was happening, but never once questioning it.
"Yes, Rachel, yes!" Danny said excitedly, and she let out a light gasp as she felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders, squeezing her a little too tight. "You already know your selfish intentions are going to be the end of him, right?"
Her pulse raced, it raced so fast it felt like it was about to burst in her veins and end her once and for all. "That's not—!"
Eddie jutted in, dawning his honest face now, freckles and all, pushing Ray over like two little kids fighting on the playground. She clambered to the floor with a pained gasp. "You're so mean, Rachel!" Eddie said, crossing his arms and pouting. "You just love breaking hearts, don't you!"
Ray shook her head, "I never wanted to—!"
Silencing her, a gloved palm placed itself atop Rachel's head, gently stroking her locks as if she were a little pet. "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," Cathy sighed, "you're not fooling anyone. In the end," the delicate touch grew rough, and she gripped Ray tightly by the hair, "everyone around you is going to die. All by your pretty little hand."
Ray cried out now, as loud as someone like she could, in terror, in confusion, and more than all else, guilt and remorse. She flailed away and shambled to her feet, fight or flight taking over, covering her ears again but the voices haunting her didn't stop, wouldn't stop, only growing more aggressive and pointed. You're a sinner. Selfish and rotten to the core. Dirty, unclean, damned. Bad, bad, bad girl. Louder and louder, and then the loudest thing of all: the ringing of a church bells beyond all else.
Finally, there was but one more voice, a young girl's voice, the voice she knew best, and somehow, not at all. Looking back up the mirror, there was only one person staring back, of course, none other than herself. Only instead of the current she, the Rachel staring back adorned a white lab coat over a striped shirt, a black choker, and a dead, empty gaze.
The younger she, born on the day she lost her heart.
"You don't deserve to have Zack kill you."
Then, the shattering of glass.
Echoing loud in the now otherwise empty cottage, a million shards of glass fell to the floor all around her. Rachel had pushed the standing mirror to the floor and fell back to her knees. "Go away!" she exclaimed, tears bubbling in her ducts for the first time since they'd set out on this journey together. Rachel sobbed, arms wrapped around her chest as of trying to hide, shield, protect herself, when suddenly, Rachel again felt a hand on her shoulder, someone reaching out from behind, but this time the touch was even heavier than before—heavier than ever.
She couldn't take the weight any more.
"Stop it!"
Like a flash of lightning, a slender, petite palm reached out, grabbing a piece of the broken glass. The tight grip she held it with caused the edge to slice her fingers, but she'd have done anything in that moment to silence the voices in her mind, anything to make the torture end. Next thing she knew, she pivoted on her heel, plunging the broken mirror shard into the shoulder of the person behind her, letting out a frantic cry as she did.
To her shock and horror, it wasn't a victim of her past, but instead her person of present.
It was neither Danny, Eddie, Cathy, nor the younger her, causing her to question if they'd perhaps never been in the first place. There was only one certainty now, and it was the the person in front of her, the person she attacked, was very much here, and very much real. Her azure gaze went wide, reflecting a contrasting shade of deep, red blood.
Zack.
With her hand still gripping the broken shard, the glass had pierced his upper torso, near his shoulder, only his thin bandaging protecting him hardly without a hoodie. He flinched instantly, peeking down to his spot she'd struck, gritting his teeth with a very real pain showing on his face. He cried out in a mix of shock and frustration. "Geezus fucking Christ!" he shouted. "The fuck was that for!?"
Naturally, he grabbed her hand and pushed her off. As quickly as it happened, as if it were little more than an inconvenience, he ripped the broken piece from his shoulder, throwing it on the floor before her. Of course, to someone like him, it was an annoyance more than an assault, he'd had far worse (hell, even done by her,) but that didn't mean it wasn't enough to set him off. Again.
"I know you're pissy, but sheesh! Y'didn't have to go that far!" he spat, but Rachel didn't look at him or respond in distraught, and he seemed to recognize something more intense in her already distant persona. "Hey," he said, "you listenin' to me?" The question went unanswered, but clearly not, as the child looked at her now-maroon reflection in the mirror shard, stained with his blood.
You're a bad girl, Rachel.
Rachel, without a word, reached down slowly, taking the mirror shard in hand. Zack, raising his tone, called out to her again, but she almost couldn't hear him now. "—ey, I'm…akin' to yo—!" his voice warbled. Holding the fragment, its point reflected in the sunrays cast from the window, almost blinding her with how bright the evening glare was. "Earth…to psych—!" The blade moved from the sun to her skin as she placed the sharp edge on her wrist. "..ay, Ray—!"
And you know what happens to bad girls, don't y—?
"Rachel!"
A gasp resounded, one not of pain, but stun and astonish. She could feel her pulse beat again, and oh it beat faster than it maybe ever had, surprisingly still in her vein. Despite the every intention to tear into herself, no blood flowed, not a drop on her arm. All time froze as Rachel was finally, finally, finally broken from her trance.
Zack's bandaged hand gripped her by the wrists to restrain her.
"Dammit, girl!" He held her so tight that almost hurt, and it certainly would've for anyone else, but Rachel somehow grew calmer by the sensation. Her gaze narrowed, finally settling upon the person in front of her, who stared down at the crook of her arm, which very clearly had been pierced with something small and foreign. Finally, he noticed the shattered syringe on the floor, and suddenly, shit started to make a lot more sense.
What (and he meant this from the bottom of his whole heart,) the ever-loving fuck, Ray.
"What the hell did you do!" he shouted, oh so very tempted to slap her back to sobriety. "I walk away for five fucking minutes and you decide that now's the time to start shootin' up!?"
To Rachel, the fact seemed to have no relation to the current situation, and in fact, she'd long since forgotten about it. The only thing that mattered was the new bloodstain he bore, one of her doing. With a lump in her throat, Ray could hardly speak, breath hitching, huffing in absence as she couldn't catch up to his thoughts, much less her own. "Zack," she sputtered, choking up, nearly hyperventilating, trying to pull away, stumbling back a few steps, "you... you—I almost—!"
"Can you calm the fuck down for one second?!" Zack wrangled her, but no relief showed on the contrary as she shook her head.
"But, but, I—!"
"Sweet Mary-motherfuck," he hissed beneath his breath. "Will you just—!"
"I can't!" Ray started struggling again, eyelids slamming shut abruptly as she tried to turn and run. He growled in frustration, done with her nonsense somehow more now than ever. Easily out-powering her, his hand maneuvered to grip the back of her neck, firmly holding her to gaze upon his.
"Shut up! Look at me!"
Stunned, her breath hitched, and Ray finally grew still enough for Zack to look her in the eye, but doing so left him near-astonished. Clearly, she was crying, really crying, and yet, even when she was sobbing her eyes out, she looked so empty. It was an even greater nothingness than ever, a girl still alive, but already dead.
A resonance, an orchestra, the ringing of wedding bells on a Sunday.
"Kill me," she whimpered helplessly, a sort of hopelessness overwhelming her words now more than ever. "Please, Zack," begged Ray, bracing herself against him with her tattered palms resting upon his chest, only adding to the crimson stains be bore. Completely leaning into him, and never daring to look away, she gripped his bandaging. "Just kill me."
Almost dumbfounded by both her words and the sensation of her being so close, he stumbled a few steps back, as if she'd had the force to push him, and not just the influence. "Ray," he muttered, frustration dissipating from his tone, but parallel in concernment. With his back bumping into contact with the wall panels, he could feel her body growing weak, and instead of trying to hold her up still, he slowly lowered with her to the floor. Zack sat upon the ground, backed up to the wall as Rachel rested flush against him, his chest, nestled between his legs—only the thin layer of bandaging keeping him from feeling his charred skin.
It felt like a frigid blade had been shoved through his even colder heart.
While this was maybe the millionth time she'd asked, he was somehow at a loss. What was he supposed to say? This plea felt different, and not just logically, but at his core. It was almost overwhelming, because while he could still tell that killing her with such a look on her face would not result in the rush he chased, that wasn't the particularly baffling part.
Killing her like this would feel nothing but unacceptable, dare he say sinful, if he had any idea what that really meant.
"Ray," he repeated, conviction showing in both his expression and tone, "I am gonna kill you," he finally replied, voice lower now, so low it was almost a whisper, "but don't forget that we got shit to do first. You wanna," shit, what was the word? "repent or whatever, yeah? You gotta save some sorry motherfucks before you can have your turn, right?" he pressed, to which Ray paused.
"But that boy earlier," she shook her head, "he didn't even want to be saved."
Zack let out a "tch" between his teeth. "Forget him."
An even longer pause. "I couldn't even save Annabelle."
Oh, Zack faintly realized the name as the one who Rachel had met on her venture, the one they were talking about all on the news. "The hell do you mean? They said she's in a coma or whatever," and unless he was confused, "that means she ain't dead."
Rachel shook her head. "She may as well be."
Faraday may have had no intent to kill, and Zack may have slaughtered him, but in the end, he still hadn't been stopped. Foster, however, only rolled his eyes and gave a sigh. "Damn, you're such a pessimist. Why the hell ya always gotta be so morbid?" he groaned. Why did everything have to be the end of the world with her? Is that why she was throwing such a fit earlier, 'cause her little fucked up pilgrimage hit a few road bumps? Why did it matter so much? Really, was it so catastrophic that she needed to stick a needle in her arm and try to slash herself? "It's not like you killed her."
Ray only looked skeptical.
Ugh. Okay, fine: "If you don't wanna believe me, why not just put another tally on the ol' bodycount and we'll just find some other rando to get the job done. What's the big deal?" Honestly, what was one more? "Problem solved, all better, officially free to move the fuck on," he said, giving her an excuse, an easy out. "So stop crying," he demanded, maybe more for his own sake than hers, but of course, she couldn't indulge him so easily.
The thought of falling deeper into sin haunted her, but even beyond that, there was something that didn't seem to sit right with her about the idea. "I can't," she replied, huffing and shaking her head.
(His instinct was to tell her to stop being a pussy, but he figured that probably wouldn't've helped things.) "Yes, you can," he insisted, yet the tears in her ducts trailed down her cheek without a foreseeable end, and the words that next came from her mouth wavered, and she sounded so very pitiful and guilty, like a child who committed their first early wrong by total accident.
"But you're still mad at me."
Zack rose an eyebrow, seeming surprised to hear as much. Suddenly, he realized that the frustration he'd felt for the last few days was all but forgotten, replaced by whatever odd feeling it is he had to deal with now—and maybe it was because she was starting to understand, too.
Always worrying about the small shit, this one.
For a moment, he said nothing, before exhaling a large, large breath. "And?" he said. "You ain't special." He huffed a single laugh, a little joking tone in his voice as he relaxed back, pausing for a long moment. "I'm over it, Ray," he finally said, voice so soft it was almost gentle, "now you need to be, too." Zack was almost surprised to see the reaction on her face, like she'd just discovered the true meaning of the universe (or, hell, maybe she was just high as shit still.) "But," he said, before she could object, "if you're still worried about it, you can make it up to me." Even if she couldn't stop crying.
Ray looked at him, anxiously, quizzically.
"Smile."
The girl's brow knit together tighter, lips quivering for a moment longer, tears spilling a little steadier. Slowly, a petite palm reached upwards, gripping tighter the wraps that covered his chest, as if mustering up the strength to focus hard on focus the task at hand. Betrayed by the sorrow still pooling in her ducts, there it was, the world's worst attempt by the world's worst girl. It was expression reserved only for the man in front of her.
Rachel smiled, however pathetic and cheerless.
Zack exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and his hand on the back of her neck grew less firm, shifting instead to rest atop her head, fingers carding into her silken hair. Gardner, back to grace, let her body go lax; she pulled herself against him more securely as they sat slumped together on the floor, a bright crimson stain transferring from him to her cheek, mixing with the tears she shed. Rachel's sobs didn't slow, they only picked up softly as she nestled into him closer, curled up like a kitten in its perch. Like a lullaby, the sound of his voice hushed her to sleep.
"Good girl."
While Zack knew it was probably safe to move her not long after, he felt too mentally wiped from the whole damn ordeal to entertain the thought for an hour or so. He only seemed to notice the time as darkness had fallen outside, and finally mustering the energy, like if it were little more than inconvenient, he shifted, one arm wrapping around her shoulders and the other beneath her legs. He held her in his arms, sitting on the edge of the bed with the intent of settling her gently as not to wake her, but before he could, the sound of her voice rose from her lips to his ears.
"Zack?" said Ray breathlessly.
He looked down to her, a look of mild curiosity as his only acknowledgement. The moon bathed its daughter in a pale blue light, and he looked upon her illuminate visage. A tuft of blonde fell into her face, eclipsing her visage as her eyelids cracked open just a fraction, so thin she almost looked like she was still asleep. Her gaze fell upon his.
"You… called my name," she finally said, sounding almost euphoric. "You called me 'Rachel'."
He didn't know what he was expecting she'd say, but it wasn't that. He supposed drugged out of her mind Ray was even weirder than the "normal" one. "Yeah?" he said nonchalantly, to which Ray ushered a nod. In the midst of the commotion earlier, truth be told, he'd hardly noticed. Zack huffed a laugh. "Well," he warned, "don't get used to it." Ray gave a soft exhale, corners of her lips twitching upwards just a micro-fraction affirmatively, as if to say "oh, never". With lids falling shut once more, there was but one more thing she'd say before falling fast asleep for the rest of the night.
"It… made me happy."
Isaac felt his chest grow tight with an indescribable feeling, wondering if that was may the first and only time he'd ever hear her say something like that. He couldn't help but wonder if she had any actual idea what happiness really felt like, not that he could exactly say for himself.
For every moment longer that he knew her, spent with her, he only seemed to understand her less. He'd been made to know her life story, but at the end of the day, what did he really know? What had she actually seen? Before he'd met her, or even before she'd killed her parents, what was Rachel's life like? Just knowing his own biography, how indescribable it was, he couldn't resist the urge to wonder. She was dangerously intelligent, and at the same time, just the opposite: so motherfuckin' stupid. The fuck was wrong with this kid?
But, like, really this time.
What was wrong with her?
She knew how to solve the square root of fuck-all or whatever, but never listened when she was told "don't run with scissors". She could memorize any book she read down to the word, make a bomb out of a battery and a piece of wire, devise a series of long-winded, methodical murders (on two separate occasions,) but she didn't realize the severity of a man's fingers stuck down her throat?
Or... the danger of falling asleep in a serial killer's arms.
He could kill her right now if he wanted to, could've killed her at any time, and had he not given her those three seconds, she wouldn't even be here right now. What was more interesting? Neither would he.
Make no mistake: there wasn't a doubt in his mind, in this and all and every moment, that he was still going to kill her—no ifs, ands, or buts about it. However, if he was ever going to be able to do that properly while keeping their respective values and promise in tact, that meant he had to protect her from anything that may try to harm her first, right? Hell, some people might even call that an obligation. When she was but a second from having her throat slit, skull broken, heart torn out, yeah, she was ruthless, unyielding, dangerous, but at the end of the day, Isaac Foster had to protect Rachel Gardner, because Ray...
Ray was, just...
Rachel.
Suddenly, his chest began growing tighter in maybe the worst pain of his life. It was agonizing, like all the times he'd been surrounded by the burning flames that sought to snuff his unrelenting life out; a breath of smoke that couldn't be caught. It was a vicious cycle: fear from the potential, shame from the weakness, and the worst part of all, guilt.
Guilt, because he just couldn't help it.
He looked upon the slumbering Ray, his grip on her shoulders growing tight. The moonlight hit her visage, highlighting the pale pink shade of her bottom lip. It almost looked like she'd stopped breathing all together, but lowering his gaze, Zack could discern a shallow but certain draw of breath as her chest rose and fell slightly. In his arms, she stirred, just enough to toss her head and barely re-adjust. Suddenly, he couldn't resist a wandering gaze as the strap of her tank had fallen from her shoulder, it was just a little too big, and she was a little too small. In that moment, something inside him started growing restless, something he'd always been able to ignore. Every small bit of restraint he'd ever forced himself to have was threatening to shatter right in that moment, as if the unconscious her had thrown a ceramic brick right through the glass him.
Raising his wrist, his pointer and middle fingertips met with the point of his sharp, left canine, wraps pinched beneath his teeth. He pulled them loose and they fell haphazardly to allow just a touch of his skin. Somehow both slow and before he had even realized it, his hand gravitated towards her cheek as he brushed the lone strand of her hair from her face, even more-so than Ray ever bothered to do in her waking life. He studied her now, long and hard, this girl—this chaotic, insane, nightmarish girl. Whatever lashes he'd had began to flutter, as if trying to block the sight of her out, but even behind closed lids, he could imagine her perfectly.
From the moment he'd met her, this girl had no mercy on his heart.
The knuckle of his pointer finger rose to lightly lift her chin, tilting her head up. Zack leaned downwards, neck cranking to position his visage over hers sleeping. His breath, always deep from the bandaged layer that protected him from the rest of the world, grew somehow heavier. The pulse in his veins beat painfully as he drew closer and closer to the unaware Ray—so horrendously close that he could feel her soft breath upon his, so close that a few strands of his sable fringe had fallen upon hers. His lips were near-flush upon her skin, but forever, ever, and ever apart. Ray exhaled a small sound, and it sent shivers down his spine. It was a breath, just her breath, she took them all the time, but right now, he wanted to steal it in every and all ways.
"Rachel," his voice was a low, gravely whisper, spoken into her ear, both a threat and a promise, "I'm going to kill you."
Isaac Foster had to protect Rachel Gardner, because Rachel Gardner was just a little girl.