Chapter 16: So Beautiful
A small boy, no taller than four feet, stood before a woman passed out on the sofa. Befallen from her fingertips was a mostly empty pack of white powder on the ground, and on the nightstand at her side, a growing, unending pile of letters, bills and collections. While he couldn't discern the words upon them, the little boy reached up, taking in hand the topmost envelope, squinting at it.
As any unsupervised six-year-old would, he curiously spilled the rest of the notes on the floor, recognizing the same lettering upon all of them, wondering their meaning, wondering why his mother always seemed so stressed out when she looked at these weird papers. Mama got mad at him earlier today because he ran up to the man in the white uniform who always delivered them and tried to stop him by throwing his arms around the man's leg, biting into him. She dragged him back into the house, kicking and screaming, then threw him in the dark broom closet for an hour. He wasn't even able to stop the person, he realized, because there were just more and more of those letters on the table by the time he came out, and Mama had already taken the scary medicine that made her sleep so deeply, it almost seemed like she would never wake up.
The sound of the door opening was heard from across the trailer, and the little boy pivoted on his heel, stumbling to look at the person who came in.
It was a tall, muscular man with sandy blonde hair. He recognized him as the man who his mother spent a lot of time with alone. They'd go into her room and lock themselves in, and even when he'd cry and bang at the door, oftentimes, she wouldn't open it. They made a lot of noise, and he didn't really know what they were doing, but he knew he didn't like the way his mother acted around this man. More than once, they would fight and scream at one another, the man even grabbed her and tossed her around sometimes, too.
He didn't like this man.
"What are you lookin' at, Kid?"
His only response was a clear scowl as he turned back to his sleeping mother. He put his hand on her shoulder and shook her. "Mama," he said, but she barely stirred. "Mama," he called a bit louder.
The women groaned and pushed him away. "Not now, Isaac," she muttered. "Go watch T.V."
Even if he wanted to, the remote was seized from him before he could so much as turn the channel. Making himself at home, the man flopped down into the recliner, leaning back as he drank a can of some bitter beverage Zack accidentally sipped once. When her son's bothersome presence didn't cease, the woman had no choice but to relent, her eyes cracking open slightly to the sight of her boyfriend sat across the room, bypassing the child completely.
"Sam?" she said drearily. She sighed, rolling her eyes as she rubbed them as if she preemptively knew how this visit was about to go. Zack recognized that she was already getting stressed out, and he wondered why she didn't just tell him to leave. "Go to your room, Isaac."
"But—"
"Just get in there!"
A sour look showed on his face, but having already been punished today, he reluctantly did as he was told, however slamming the door behind him for good measure. Letting out a frustrated growl, he knocked the lamp off his night stand and the bulb shattered, to which his mother yelled some explicit warning at him to quiet down. Merely crossing his arms, Zack sat with his back against the door as he fumed, only getting angrier as he listened as the two went back and forth, arguing over something about money and weeds and other words he didn't understand. He wanted to scream at them, too.
Why were they fighting already? He just wanted them to stop arguing. That's all he wanted.
No. That was a lie, actually.
He wanted the man to go away and never come back. He wanted him to go to sleep and never wake up. He wanted him gone.
The sound of his mothers voice escalated louder, the kind of voice she used when she scolded him. She said swear words he wasn't supposed to say, and the sound of heavy shuffling was heard, as if she'd been shoved. She cried out in pain, and towards the fact, Zack scrambled back to his feet and ran back into the living room; his mother was befallen, the side of her head bleeding slightly. He turned a vicious glare on the man he hated.
"Isaac," his mother said on the contrary, "I told you to stay in your room!" The woman's hand landed flat across his cheek, slapping him, her long nails dragging across his skin. "Why don't you ever do as I say!"
The boy grit his teeth desperately, pained and offended, wondering how this was somehow his fault when that man was the one who pushed her. With shaking fists, he stomped his foot as if to lash out, but as he did, he was taken by the hair. The man grabbed him, and it wasn't really a surprise, but suddenly, he was stunned as a heavy liquid poured over him, something thicker and slimier than water. It smelled gross, like a gas station. He fell to the ground, gritting his teeth, the viscous droplets leaking into his right eye, blearing his vision. Regardless, he withheld a look of pure hatred toward the man who dared handle him, who only seemed entirely humored on the contrary. He pointed at Zack, cackling cruelly through grit teeth.
In his hand, the man held out a lighter, and recognizing his intentions, adrenaline pooled in Zack's young core as watched the flame ignite. Suddenly, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the man's midsection as he dropped the lighter to the iridescent liquid bleeding out around Zack's feet.
In that moment, Isaac Foster felt powerless.
The trail of fire raced up the puddle, as if targeting him personally, and next thing he realized, his entire body went up in burning flames.
In that moment, Isaac Foster suddenly realized he hated feeling powerless.
His mind went blank, body overtaken only by the unbearable heat suffocating him relentlessly, as if he couldn't believe what was happening, helpless to only struggle instinctually though the worst pain of his life.
In that moment, Isaac Foster refused to ever let himself be made powerless again.
The man tried to shove Zack off, but it was no avail, the small child holding onto him as if it were a matter of life or death as he fully forewent the suffering of burning alive. Next thing he realized, the taste of blood and flesh was grit between his teeth—he'd bit down into the man's arm, taking a chunk of skin with him. His fist landed against Zack's forehead, and he finally stumbled, falling back. Between being struck and the flames engulfing him, Zack blacked out before he could so much as hit the ground.
It was a few hours later when he finally came to, hardly breathing and burned to the bone. The only thing he could remember was the feeling of his mother holding him as she wound him up in those horrendous bandages. That was the last time she'd ever embrace him in her arms.
As he laid lifelessly on the couch, he peeked over to the nightstand, to those same envelopes that started this terrible day. He squinted at the name centered upon it, still trying to find some kind of meaning as to why it made her so upset, and he finally realized that—even if he couldn't read it, he didn't need to. He had been made to understand how cruel the world really was, literacy or not. For the last time in his life, Isaac fell asleep to the sound of his mother sobbing in the other room.
That was the day Clair Foster laid to rest her only son, long before he could ever have the chance to grow up—birthing instead the Back Alley Murderer.
The first thing he noticed was the splitting ache in his head as he dwindled to consciousness.
Honestly, for a long moment, it was all he could notice, the pain that throbbed relentlessly, overtaking him maybe worse than ever before, which was saying something for a man who'd been set on fire and survived the electric chair. His bandaged palm rose, gripping his forehead as he let out a visceral groan between grit teeth, "agh". Without realizing it, he panted heavily, as if agonized.
"Shhh," a gentle voice hushed him, followed by an even gentler touch.
His lids fluttered narrowly, a half-gaze being all he could muster against the pain. His vision was bleary, but he recognized the girl before him as she reached out, fingertips pressed to his cheek delicately. "Ray?" he muttered in confusion, wondering why, or rather, how she was in front of him. Last thing he remembered, he'd locked her out of the room after her last little stunt; he'd taken a cold shower and went to bed, and she shouldn't've been able to get in the master bedroom to pester him again, but here she was. While he didn't understand, he was almost relieved to see her in how atrocious he felt. "What… what the hell's going on?" he choked out. "My… my head," he grit his teeth as he trailed off, fingertips entangling in the side of his hair loosely.
Maybe he was just delirious, but he could've sworn he'd seen a devoid smirk appear on her chilling visage.
"You have a terrible fever," Ray told him. "You've been tossing restlessly in your sleep," she explained, and while he couldn't remember why, it seemed to line up with how on-edge he felt—not that he'd ever been one to sleep soundly in the first place. "Please," Ray whispered softly into the shell of his ear, the tone of her voice shaking him in his vulnerable state, "let me take care of things, until you're well again." If only in confusion, his shaking palm rose, as if to reach out to her, but he lost his strength half way, his hand falling back to the mattress weakly.
What the hell is going on?
"Don't worry."
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed as Ray gently pressed her lips to his, simultaneously losing any faint sense of consciousness he barely withheld. His already fleeting awareness grew hazy, the last thing he could recognize being the sound of her beautifully tormenting tone as he faded back to a forced sleep.
"Everything is going to work out."
Three hours earlier.
On her lonesome, Rachel once more laid on the tattered couch in the living room. Clothed only in Zack's hoodie yet, she recalled the first time he'd lent it to her upon their reunion—how warm it made her feel that day. Despite being in the middle of summer now, wearing it only made her feel colder. Ray wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, propping herself up haphazardly.
Why? Why was this happening?
Was she really as much of a burden to him like he'd always said? Was he tired of her? Did he hate her? Reaching out, Ray took her messenger bag in hand, pulling out Zack's knife, looking upon her pathetic reflection, her cheeks red and blotchy from crying. Her mind raced with the possibilities for what she could do, but talking didn't work, much less what else she'd tried. Hunching her shoulders, she held the weapon to her chest, over her heart.
Was Zack doing this because he didn't want to kill her anymore?
Even if he didn't want her gone, even Zack thought she'd be safer with someone else, there was no protecting Ray from the one person who wanted her dead most of all. As she stared down at her Zack's knife, an intrusive consideration came into her mind for the first time ever.
Giving up.
A shaking hand rose to place the edge of her beloved's blade to the base of her neck.
Now more than ever, she had to wonder, what was the point of living if it wasn't with him?
She was only stopped short by the sound of a vibrating cell reverberating from the pocket of Zack's hoodie. With all she had, she slowly lowered her arm, reaching in to take in hand the burner phone they'd stolen a while back, reading the name on display: Lawrence, and for a long, hard moment, Ray weighed the two options in front of her.
Answer the phone, or penultimate mortality?
Well, she supposed it'd be rude not to answer.
Ray picked it up. "Hello, Mr. Lawrence?" she greeted, trying to steady her shaking voice. "If you want to talk to Zack right now, it's," she looked down at the knife in her hands, "it's not really a good time," to say the least.
And it was times like this that Ray recounted her faith.
"Rachel," the small voice on the receiver said, notably, not one of a grown man, but still recognizable.
"Eve?" Ray said back, somewhat surprised, though she didn't reply, seeming apprehensive. "Is everything okay?" asked Ray.
"I," Eve replied, voice shaking slightly, "I don't know."
Noting her almost fearful tone, Ray's brow knit together. "What's wrong?" she asked, but Evangeline didn't answer. "Is Mr. Lawrence with you?"
"No," she said weakly.
Ray felt her concern growing, thinking she understood what Eve had called for. "Do you want me to come over?" Ray offered.
A seemingly reluctant pause was heard from the other end of the receiver. "Please," Eve replied. "The… the park," she explained, and Ray took her meaning, though it seemed like an awfully dreary day to visit the park, but she didn't question her.
"Okay," Ray nodded to herself. "Just stay there and I'll be over soon," she said, and Eve replied with an affirmative "uh-huh" before hanging up. Doing the same, Ray again looked down at the knife in her hands as her fingertips rose to glide across the base of her neck where the edge had sat before.
Maybe it really was a sign from God.
Evangeline sat beneath the cover of a white, frilly umbrella on a wooden park bench. In her lap, she looked down at a book that, despite its moderate reading level, had cute pictures and illustrations. She concentrated closely on the words she tried to discern.
"What are you reading?" a familiar voice called out before her.
With her attention drawn, the child looked up, seeing Rachel wearing an oversized, dirtied hoodie. Despite having reclothed herself, she still adorned Zack's jacket, drawing the hood up to best keep herself dry in the rain. Towards the question, Eve gave a pause, ultimately holding the cover up for Rachel to observe, who read it silently.
The Little Prince
Eve set the book back in her lap, looking pensively upon the same page as before, her fingertips slowly drawing to a modest passage on the left side. Curious, Ray sat down next to her, looking over her shoulder. "Can you read it?" she asked, but after a moment, Eve defeatedly shook her head. "It's okay," Ray reassured her, "I'll help you." Ray reached out, putting a hand on the book as she peered over, discerning the words the child struggled with. Ray read it for her.
"'Of course I love you,' the rose said to him. 'That is of no importance. But you? You have been just as foolish as I. Try'…" Ray gave a pause, finding it somehow difficult to conclude the passage, "'try to be happy.'"
On the page, Ray's gaze zoned distantly.
"Happy," Eve repeated quietly, the tone of her voice contrary to the sentiment, so much so that even the ever-distracted Rachel noticed.
Feigning normalcy, the older girl merely shook her head. "Do you want me to keep readin—?" she asked, but before her offer could find conclusion, Eve closed the book with a slam, a conflicted look showing upon her features. Gardner felt a creeping chill at the back of her neck, remembering the real reason she'd been called here.
"Eve," Rachel began, "what's wrong?" she asked, and she could sense the younger girl's hesitation as she tilted her head back, looking up towards the cloudy sky, brow knitting together.
"Whitney," was all she said.
Rachel's expression warped somehow bitterly. "Is she bothering you again?" Lowering her gaze, Eve shook her head slowly. "If she is, tell me, and I'll—"
"Dead."
Caught off guard, it took Ray a second to process what Eve meant, a look of clear shock showing as Eve finally look her in the eye. "Wh… what?" she asked in clear disbelief.
"Dead," she reiterated. More specifically, "Killed."
Looking away, Rachel's thoughts grew dim as her mouth fell slightly agape, as if she couldn't believe it, couldn't comprehend it. That girl, the very same one she strangled brutally yesterday before, reluctantly, letting her go free… she—she was—?
"Was it you?"
Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Ray's spine, and it wasn't merely due to the rain. "What?" she faked an innocent expression, one well-practiced. "Why would you think something like that?" she asked shakily. "I… I would never—"
"Liar," Eve said pointedly, beneath her small breath.
Ray's brow knit together, not in hurt, but anxiety. "Huh?" she muttered. "No, I," Rachel fumbled awkwardly, "I would never lie to yo—"
"Liar!"
In a flash, Evangeline peered up, dropping the children's book to the ground in a clatter, the look in her eye vindictive and direct, personally hurt and reasonably upset. Reaching in her pocket, the younger girl whipped out a folded piece of paper, gesturing for Rachel to take it. After a moment, the older girl reluctantly did so, and unraveling it, Rachel, somehow, wasn't surprised what she saw. In the middle of a wanted flier, there was none other than a picture of herself.
A wave of guilt overwhelmed Ray suddenly, and she was at a loss for what to say.
Maybe Eve couldn't read well, but she knew she'd been found out. Sure, it wasn't like she'd outright told her false information about her identity, but half-truths were no better. "Don't lie." Evangeline's little tone faltered a touch, as she was clearly shaken. "Yesterday…" she choked out, voice cracking as she recalled the sight of her mysterious blonde savior. Eve trailed off, as if she didn't want to acknowledge the harsh reality staring her in the face.
Ray didn't want to acknowledge it either.
"I… I don't want to lie to you, Eve, but I just," she exhaled, at a loss, "I have things that I can't talk about." Things she was scared to talk about.
"Friends," she reassured her in a shaky voice, and Ray's heart welled. Gazing upon that innocent and sincere expression looking back, now more than ever, Zack's core ideology resonated in her racing heart, remembering the last she'd heard him say it was maybe the last time ever.
You know I hate liars.
"Yesterday," Ray said quietly, "I didn't kill that girl, Eve," she reiterated, the words pouring from her heart almost against her will, "but I… I was planning to." Suddenly, the little girl's big, auburn eyes drew even wider, her attention captivated now.
"Huh?"
"Eve," Ray confessed quietly, her voice wavering, "I'm a serial killer."
Hearing as much, of course, the younger child's expression lit slightly with confusion. While Ray expected the worst, her reaction wasn't quite what she anticipated as the little girl tilted her head to the side.
"Breakfast?"
Ray gave a weak, slightly amused smile and a shake of her head. "Not cereal. Serial," she clarified. "It means… I've killed people." A lot of people.
It seemed like Eve still didn't understand completely, little-to-no emotion showing on her face towards what should've been a terrible revelation. "Why?" she asked simply, as if the answer weren't a complicated one, and there was certainly a time where Ray would've used every excuse in the book to avoid the truth—self-defense, accident, atonement, anything, but now, she couldn't avoid as much if she wanted to, and oh, how she wanted to.
"Because there's something broken inside of me," without realizing it, a tear trailed down her cheek, "something that can't be fixed," Ray confessed, her voice growing tighter as she choked up.
Ray let out a breathless gasp, then another, and another, when suddenly, she felt a smaller palm placed atop hers. The older girl peered over to her companion weakly, surprised to see anything less than shock and horror on Eve's visage. Calm and collected as ever, she lent Rachel a look of gentle understanding, one she'd never believe herself deserving of.
"Everyone… has a rose, in their heart. Yours… is beautiful."
Rachel's tears were forgotten momentarily, stunned to hear the steady string of words pour from Eve's lips in what were the first complete sentences she'd ever said in Ray's recollection.
"No," Ray huffed, remembering the first day they played together at the cafe, when Eve showed her the roses, the pretty white one she seemed to think matched Ray well. At the time, she wasn't sure she understood Eve's meaning, but even as she did now, Rachel didn't feel so purely. If there was a rose in her heart, it certainly wasn't white—it was black and stomped to pieces beneath the heel of the only person she would trust it in the hands of. "It's wilted."
Eve shook her head and gripped Rachel's palm tighter, who merely winced, because it felt like maybe the younger girl didn't quite understand the gravity of just how horrific her sins were. A little water and sunlight would never be enough to revive a flower that firstly bloomed in hell. On the contrary, Eve was yet certain otherwise.
If Rachel wanted to change: "You can change."
Reaching up, rubbing her burning eyes with the back of her hand, Ray shook her head. "I-I can't," she muttered helplessly. "I've tried to, but—deep down, I'm… I'm still a sinner," and she just kept getting worse. "I can't do it on my own," she choked out through tears.
"Not alone," Eve told her with certainty, peering towards Ray's face with a sincere expression, but the light in her senior's eyes, only reflected by her tears, faded even dimmer.
"I am," she said hopelessly.
Despite Eve's kind meaning, even though she'd made a friend for the first time in her life, Ray selfishly felt lonelier than ever in knowing that the person she believed in most was turning his back on her.
"Zack's leaving me," she explained. "He's making me stay with you and Mr. Lawrence."
Eve's brow knit together, and Rachel thought she may have been imagining things as an odd, almost uncharacteristic alertness showed in her eye. "Wh… Why?" she asked apprehensively. Rachel supposed she was simply a reasonably concerned friend.
"I don't know," she said, only able to assume, "but I-I can't—I can't imagine life," or death, "without him."
"Rachel…" Eve said sympathetically.
"It hurts," Ray said abruptly, "it hurts so much," even worse than being shot twice in the chest, "and the thought of being away from him makes me feel so empty," emptier than anything else ever had, which was saying something. "It feels like my heart's breaking into a million pieces, and I can't bear it," Ray sobbed into her hand. "I wish I could, but I-I just—I can't live without him, and I don't know wh—!"
"Love."
In her chest, Ray's wilted, broken rose skipped a beat.
"Love?" Ray repeated breathlessly, as if she didn't understand, and the little girl simply nodded, quelling her friend's tears before they could pick up again. "I... love Zack?"
"Dedicated," Eve reminded her, and with a mild rush of heat flooding her cheeks, Ray put a palm to her heart, peering away in deep consideration.
She wasn't sure she knew what such a thing was.
After all, her life had been built on false "I love you"s, from the parents who hated her, to Doctor Danny who gave Ray her floor in the building. Even Eddie, the first boy to confess he had innocent, sincere feelings for her—they all said they loved her, but Ray knew they were all lying. Despite everything, Rachel didn't know if someone like her was capable of love, and remembering how all her doctors and counselors and just about everyone in her life would tell her she didn't feel things like a normal person, logic would dictate that part of her was broken, but even so, Ray suddenly realized something deep in her heart.
If Ray could have those feelings, she'd want to have them for him.
From the very moment she met Zack, he was the center of her world. Every day for the year they were apart, he was in her thoughts, and every minute she was away from him was a minute wasted. He was the only person who saw and accepted her for who she really was, even when she couldn't accept herself. He protected her, took care of her, and most of all, he swore to end her.
Her cherished partner, her fated killer, the most important person in her life—Isaac Foster.
Am I in love with Zack?
Finally, the younger girl stood, drawing Ray back to reality as she reached down to take her befallen storybook in hand once more, tucking it in her bag. She held her hand out to Rachel, who slowly took it, and the two stood beneath the cover of the umbrella for a few moments longer. After a moment, a downcast expression showed in Eve's face.
"You… can't stay," the younger told her sullenly, and it took Ray a moment to decipher what Eve had meant, and she was almost surprised, but she knew she had no right to be.
She was saying she couldn't stay with them at the cafe.
"Because you," reasonably, "hate me now?" she asked, though much to her surprise, Eve gave a gentle shake of her head, and while she didn't clarify her reasoning, she took a step closer to Ray, closing the distance between them as she wrapped her arms around the taller girl, who embraced her equally.
"Friends," Eve reassured her.
Given that Eve had told her she wasn't able to stay at the cafe, the options in front of Ray right now were limited. She could break her and Zack's promise by committing yet another sin, but given God's divine timing, she thought there was no harm in entertaining the alternatives, which were, of course, few and far between. However, also given her luck, Ray kept the wanted flier Eve had shown her.
Missing child: Rachel Gardner
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Age 14.
Reportedly kidnapped from [REDACTED] Mental Institute late May of this year, taken by escaped convict, Isaac Foster. Please report any and all information to Samuel Gardner at [(XXX) XXX-XXXX], 1300 Hazel Lane, Quinton Trailer Park.
Samuel Gardner.
Her uncle.
Ray's living relatives were already slim to none, and after her parents had died, she was put into foster care because no one was able to take her in. Her grandparents were still alive, but they were both too old and frail to so much as take care of themselves, much less a teenage girl. As such, the only remaining relative left in her life was her father's older brother, though he, too, was unable to take custody of her. For as long as Ray could remember, he'd been in prison.
There was a short amount of time, around when Ray was maybe four, that he was released temporarily, at which point Ray met him. He was nice enough, looked a lot like her dad with a stronger build, and he seemed fond of her for some reason, but she'd never say they were close. Ultimately, he did something else to end up back in jail, but Ray's parents never told her what exactly. There was talk of him taking her in once he was out, but reasonably, the authorities around her seemed reluctant to allow it. From what she'd heard, he was willing, but it would be over a year before that could even potentially happen.
August 1st of 20[XX], to be exact, not hardly a week ago.
To think, there was someone out there who knew her personally and was still looking for her. It didn't seem real. Maybe this was another message from God, maybe he was saying that all of this was supposed to happen, she was supposed to separate from Zack and go back to the only blood relative willing to take Ray in.
As Ray would soon conclude, it was indeed a sign from God, though not one immediately discernible.
Of course, Ray had wanted nothing more than to return to Zack at the house, but she knew he'd probably still ignore her and stay locked in the bedroom—not that she would know what to say, should he actually decide to talk to her. Regardless, she found herself at the library, rummaging through a file cabinet of old newspapers dating back almost fifteen years. Taking in hand the article about a convicted felon, one Samuel Gardner, she sat at a table in the back-most corner of the building.
Samuel Gardner, age 38, born February 6th, 19[XX]
Convicted of two counts of murder in the first degree, Gardner was offered a plea agreement on July 13, 20[XX], by attorney Tom Whitmore, reducing the 15 year sentence to 10 years on charges of murder and gun ownership against probation. Gardner is a convicted felon with a history of arson, sexual assault, and child abuse.
No wonder her parents hadn't told her what he'd been taken in for. Reading on, suddenly, at the end of the article, Rachel came across something she could have never anticipated.
As though she were suffocated by the smoke of a raging fire, Ray's breath was lost in her throat.
Taking note of the date on the article, Ray rushed to another cabinet nearby, rummaging through the articles until she found what she was looking for, and sure enough, taking in hand yet another paper, her suspicions were confirmed. Her mind went blank.
Once again, it was times like this that Rachel recounted her faith.
With the old, tattered newspapers in her hands, Ray rose to her feet, walking towards the exit and back out into the outside air, thick and muggy from the rain. Regardless of the humidity, as she took a step, only one, single droplet of the rainfall remained, landing on her forehead, dripping down her face like a trail of blood. The rain above slowed, almost on cue, the sun miraculously shining through the dissipating clouds, catching her tired face, as if the Lord was smiling down on her personally.
The thought of taking her own life felt so horrifically distant and sinful now, her resolution that Zack would be the one to kill her growing stronger than ever. Reaching up towards the sky, a morbid grin spread across her features, and from her lungs, a small, devious giggle was heard.
Everything is going to work out.
Late that evening, Ray stood at the open door of an old, rusting trailer. In the doorway, a tall, muscular man with sandy blonde hair looked down at her lamplit visage with watering eyes. "Rachel," he choked up, clearly moved by her presence in some way, but the little girl before him showed no such emotion. The man fell to his knees, wrapping his large arms around her tiny shoulders as he let out a heavy sob against her. "Rachel…!"
"Uncle Samuel," Ray said cordially, "it's been a long time."
"I-I never thought I'd see you again!" he sobbed onto her. "I-I'm so glad you're okay! That—That murderer," he trailed off for a moment, "I thought he'd kill you!"
Not with my luck.
"I'm fine," she told him gently, comforting him with a pat on the back, despite the fact that she was the supposed victim here. "I got away from him," (but given the high dose of anesthesia she'd injected into his neck, like hell if he could get away from her.)
Huffing, the man backed up, keeping his hands on her shoulders as he looked her in the eye with a nod. "Thank goodness," he sniffled. "N-Now, we need to get you to the hospita—"
"No," Ray said intently.
Her uncle's expression warped with a sense of clear confusion. "Why… why not?" he asked. "You need to—"
"No," Ray repeated, shaking her head, walking past him and inviting herself into his home. The girl looked around at the dreary, outdated decor, unimpressed, the only thing catching her attention being the portrait on the wall, that of the Holy Lord nailed to the cross. "I don't want to."
Her uncle didn't contest her, following behind the young girl. "But," he said reluctantly, "but, don't you think it'd be a good idea to—?"
"No," Ray said again, cutting him off. "It's been a long time since I've been with family. I just want to spend tonight together, like a normal girl," she said, feigning an innocent tone, "and then, we can go to the hospital tomorrow." She looked back to him, her empty eyes clouding with a false sense of longing. "Please, Uncle?"
Weak to her faux endearment as anyone with empathy would be, the man withheld a pause before nodding. "Okay, Sweetheart," he said, putting a hand on the back of her head, stroking his hand down her hair. "Just rest for tonight, then we'll go tomorrow."
Unbeknownst to him, the smile that spread across her lips was a wicked one. "Thank you, Uncle."
Suddenly, a clatter was heard as a nearby bedroom door swung open, followed by a woman's voice. "Ugh, what's going on?" she said, and the first thing Ray saw were the long, painted nails on a woman's slender, almost gangly hand as she gripped the door frame. "It's nearly midnight, Sam. What are you—?" Rubbing her head, as if she'd been abruptly awoken, her long, black hair befell her face as she looked up, meeting Ray's gaze.
Rachel stared at her with a frigid intensity, her blue eyes leering into the woman's of an all-too-familiar golden shade.
"Hello," Rachel said pointedly.
"You," the woman said, as if suddenly paralyzed, her already pale skin turning whiter, "you're…"
"Rachel," her uncle interjected, putting his hand on Ray's shoulder, smiling in relief, "this is my niece, Rachel. You know," he made knowing eye-contact with the woman, "the one… who was missing. Rachel," he motioned towards the woman, holding out his hand, "this is my finacée, Clair," he explained, and something in the center of Ray's chest turned uncomfortably, for multiple reasons.
Fiancée?
"You're," Ray said, hoping she'd misheard him, simultaneously knowing she hadn't, "you're getting married?"
"Well, actually," he went on, and Ray wasn't sure she liked where this was going, "we were already married ten years ago, but things were complicated, and we had to divorce," he cleared his throat, "but last year, on my parol, we reconnected, and we were able to pick right back up from where we left off. Isn't it funny how things work out?"
Ray didn't see the humor.
"I see," was all Ray said towards the fact, feeling almost sick to her stomach. "Can you tell me where the restroom is, please?"
Her uncle pointed to the nearby hallway. "Down the way and to the right, across from the spare bedroom," he told her, and she nodded. Walking past the woman before her, Ray eyed her sharply from the corner of her gaze, who was clearly uneasy still, not having hardly said a word to Rachel even yet. She turned down the hall.
If Ray hadn't felt the resolve to do what she'd come here for, she certainly did now.
A cold sweat trickled down the side of his forehead, soaking into his bandages, his consciousness returning, if only uncomfortably. Zack moaned in pain, propping himself up with shaking arms. His vision was hazy, and the more he awoke, the more he wished he was asleep.
Suddenly, as he barely took hold of awareness, the pit of his stomach turned.
His eyes went wide and he covered his mouth with his hand, scrambling to the edge of the bed, hunching over. Haphazardly grabbing the small bedside trash, Zack threw up in it suddenly. After a minute or so of violently gagging, he groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"What… the fuck?" He lowered the bin back to the floor, suppressing the urge to instantly collapse to sleep again. He clambered to stand on shaking legs, trying to recall what last he remembered, that being the intoxicating feeling of Ray's lips after she told him he was sick. Something about all of it didn't seem right.
He'd been "sick" before, but never like this, and never so suddenly.
He stumbled towards the living room, leaning on the doorframe. "Ray," he called out, getting no answer. "H-Hey, Ray!" Nothing. "Answer me, dammit!"
Then he realized—there was no answer, because she wasn't here.
"Shit," he hissed beneath his fleeting breath, forcing himself to find balance now. Tossing around a few things in the living room, he looked for any trace of where she may have gone. Wherever she went, she'd taken his hoodie and he was left with only the jacket she'd given him. He cursed beneath his breath, tearing the cushions from the couch, and there was nothing but some forgotten coins and a Zippo lighter. Only when he finally checked the trash in the kitchen did he find anything of interest, and was it interesting indeed.
In his hand, Zack looked down at an empty syringe, and like it were nothing at all, with a sharp flex of his grip, he crushed it, the glass shattering into pieces and falling to the floor.
Now more than ever, he swore, he was gonna fuckin' kill that girl if it's the last thing he did. Looking back in the bin, Zack noticed a few crumpled papers. He tore them out, angrily spreading them flat on the table. One had a picture of Ray, and he recognized the way her name looked—he assumed it was a missing child poster, nothing of interest. What did shock him was what else he found, what looked like a really old newspaper by the torn edges and fading ink. The fact itself wasn't particularly notable, but seeing the person showcased on the cover stunned Zack to his core, and then, he felt something he'd not felt in a very, very long time.
Gazing upon the mugshot of the man who'd lit him on fire twenty years ago, Isaac Foster felt powerless.
Despite her disgust, overlooking the restroom completely, Ray instead found herself frantically rummaging through the dresser drawers in the spare bedroom. She could only assume why there was a second room at all despite the fact that this woman supposedly lived alone for the past twentyish years, and in the bottom drawer, Ray found a folder confirming those suspicions. In her hands, she held a birth certificate.
Full legal name: Isaac Leigh Foster
The corners of her lips turned upwards, and she let out a little huff. Leigh, huh?
Born: July 24th, 19[XX] | Time: 9:47 P.M.
A Leo were there ever one, but 19[XX] meant Zack was more like twenty-four years old rather than vaguely twenty.
Sex: Male | Race: Caucasian | Hair: Black | Eye: Yellow
Guess that answered the question about which eye was the dominant one. She'd always wondered about that. Earlier, Ray supposed as much from his genetics as well.
Born to mother Clair Foster, age 15
She'd been so young, only a year older than Ray currently—and it must've been difficult on her, but that gave her no right to make things so difficult on him. The tip of Ray's finger glided along the birth certificate to the line below as she began reading aloud.
"Born to Father… huh?"
Before her words could find conclusion, Ray's voice was lost in her throat completely as she let out a silent gasp in realization, the file folder falling from her fingertips, papers scattering about the floor.
"Rachel?" her uncle called from the other room. "Is everything okay?"
"Uhm, yes," Ray replied quickly, kneeling as she gathered the papers again and shoved them in her bag, knowing now more than ever that things definitely weren't okay. "Coming." Her expression grew weak and she put a hand over her heart.
Zack…
Returning to the living room, Ray walked in to see the two of them sitting side-by-side on the old, floral-print couch. While her uncle looked like he had calmed down, Clair was hunched over slightly, her hand on her head, seemingly stressed out, and Ray could only imagine why. "Are you feeling okay, sweetie?" he asked, Ray nodded, sitting in the chair across from them. "You're sure you don't need to go to the hospital?" her uncle asked. Incessantly.
"I'm fine," said the perpetually unfine Ray. "I'm not hurt or anything," she explained, and towards the fact, Clair seemed to tense up, looking away distantly. Noticing as much, her fiancée put a hand on her shoulder, smiling at Rachel.
"So, Rachel," her uncle said, trying desperately to make conversation and diffuse the tension, "you're fourteen?"
"Yeah, as of a few months ago," Ray replied, and an uncomfortable expression showed on the other woman's face, as if she was trying her hardest to work up the courage to finally speak, finally acknowledge Rachel.
"Sam tells me… you've had to grow up fast," Clair said, something about her tone indicating she was perhaps upset. "First, your parents, and then…" she trailed off, as if she didn't want to think about it anymore, but Ray wasn't about to let it go.
"Then, I met that killer," she concluded knowingly in her stead.
The woman's golden eyes went wide, breath caught in her throat as she peered up to meet Ray's unwavering, hard gaze. "Right," she said airily, "that killer." She looked back down at the floor, her long, stringy black hair falling in her face. "You said," she exhaled, seeming reluctant, "he didn't hurt you?" she asked, and Ray shook her head.
Well, not physically at least.
She assumed a broken heart didn't count.
"I see," Clair replied, offering little else, and Sam, noticing as much, cleared his throat awkwardly, changing the subject.
"Say, Rachel," he asked, "are you hungry? Would you like a slice of cherry pie?" he offered. "Clair made it, she loves sweets."
However ironically, Ray felt nothing but bitterness to learn as much.
The thought of sugar only made her feel disgusted again, but playing the part—what innocent, helpless little girl would say no to a treat so delightful? (Or a grown man wanted for serial murder and child abduction.) "I'd like that," she lied, and standing, her uncle smiled and nodded, walking towards the kitchen. Behind him, Ray stood, following.
"Oh, you can sit sweetie, I'll just be a minute."
"It's okay," Ray said, feigning a smile, "I wanna spend time with you." Before, y'know, they couldn't anymore. He gave a weak smile, putting a hand on her head, ruffling her hair with a nod. Her uncle led the way to the kitchen, but before Ray could follow him through the doorway, Clair called out to her abruptly.
"Rachel, can… can I ask," she hunched her shoulders as the younger girl remained facing away, "that killer," her voice wavered, and she withheld a long pause before she said what was really on her mind, "what was he like?"
It was probably good that the other woman avoided eye contact, otherwise she'd be met with Ray's cold, emotionless glower as she peered over her shoulder, wondering what in the world made her think she had the right to ask something like that.
Regardless, Ray inhaled deeply through her nose, steeling her frustration, thinking pensively upon the question. Her thumb brushed against the knuckle of her pointer finger as her hands tensed at her sides.
"When I first met him," Ray began slowly, "I was scared of him," though, at this point, Ray couldn't understand why she'd been, because if Zack chased her now, she'd run right back into his arms, "but, as time went on, I started to wonder," she spoke somehow pointedly, "what could've possibly happened to make him like that?" she said, and Clair's expression grew darker, but Ray's remained calm, unfazed. "I think I started to understand him more," the girl explained, and her company looked up, something shining in her yellowish iris, "now I'm not scared at all."
"Are you saying... he isn't dangerous?" she asked, a hopefulness about her tone, but of course, as Ray shook her head, her optimism faded as quickly as it arose.
"No. He's definitely dangerous," she happily let her down. "He said he would kill me," and oh, how it made her morbid heart flutter. "I just started to realize—even though he's a killer, he's still a person."
Wincing, the woman shook her head. "No," she whispered quietly, her voice strained. "He's a monster," she declared, and Ray felt an unfamiliar tension in the center of her chest as she clenched her fists so tight, her nails dug into her skin. "I-I'm sorry," Clair shook her head, looking back up, "you've been through a lot, I didn't mean to—huh?" she blurted, her voice otherwise lost in her throat as she finally looked upon the girl before her, who glared back with a cold, chilling stare, the kind of expression a child her age should never be able to understand. Without another word, Ray walked into the kitchen, leaving her company stunned and terrified.
Like love, Rachel wasn't sure someone like her could ever truly have it in her to harbor hatred—but in that moment, she was certain of one thing.
If she could, she would, without a doubt, hate this woman.
Late that night, Zack pounded at the front of the cafe, calling out, "Ey! Anybody home?!" to which his relentless knocking only subsided as the door cracked slightly ajar. At waist height, wearing a cute frilly nightgown, Evangeline peered up to Zack with her big, reddish-brown eyes.
"Mr. Foster?"
"Hey, Kid," he said frantically, his breath heavy, shoving past the door and her, looking around the otherwise empty and barren cafe, "your dad around?"
Eve stumbled slightly, caught off guard. "O-Out," she explained, closing the door and trailing behind him, putting a hand to her chest in concern.
"Huh?" Zack pivoted on his heel, gazing down at her, the look on his face riddled with aggressive anxiety. "It's the middle of the damn night!" he barked, and Eve flinched, to which was Zack reminded of whom he was talking to and quickly dialed it down. "I mean… darn night," he cleared his throat, and she peeked up to him from the corner of her eye.
"Swear jar."
Groaning, Zack knelt in front of her. "Sorry, whatever," from his pocket, he pulled out the papers, unfolding them. "Anyway, you know how to read, right?" Put on the spot, Eve seemed a little shy, bashfully avoiding eye contact as she shrugged. "Can't be any worse than me," he concluded, fanning out the pages in front of her. "Can you look at these and tell me what they say?" he asked, and curiously, Eve peered down at the fliers, recognizing the same one she'd held in her hands earlier today. She pointed at it.
"Rachel."
Okay, well, he'd figured out that much. "Yeah, Ray," he replied. "She's gone and I don't know where she went, but I think," he grit his teeth, sweat gathering at the base of his neck, "I think she's in trouble."
Eve's expression grew weak. "Trouble?"
Was this kid a broken record? "Yeah," like he just fuckin' said, "and the longer she's gone, the more danger she's in, so," he motioned to the papers, "if you ever wanna play with her again, I'm gonna need ya ta try'n read these."
Clearly anxious, Eve winced slightly. "I… I don't know," she said defeatedly.
Fuckin' hell, he didn't have time for this. "You and Ray—you're friends, right? You care about her?" he asked, and tepidly, Eve nodded. "Then you have to help me. I," fuck, he couldn't believe he was about to say this, "I need you to help me. You're the only one who can right now."
"But, I," Eve muttered quietly, lowering her head, arms curled to her chest as if she felt physically vulnerable, "I can't read," she said, and Zack's fist twitched as he felt his temper rising, like he wanted to lash out and deal with this kid like he did everything else that pissed him off, but then, Zack did something he rarely found himself able of. He took a deep breath, reminding himself of the only thing in the world that mattered to him more than killing.
He remained calm.
"Angel of slaughter."
Reaching out, Zack put his hand on her shoulder, and he stared into her wide eyes, almost intimidating now in how serious he was, though Eve peered back not in fear, but near fascination.
"That's what you called me the other day, right?"
Because what was a monster under the bed, if not exactly that?
If only by means of murder, "Angels are supposed to," like, "save people, right?" Shit, he didn't know, he wasn't religious, don't let the crazy, god-fearing romantic counterpart fool ya. "I don't know if you know who I really am, if you're scared of me or not, and honestly, right now, I don't care. I need to save Ray, and I can only do that if you help me find her. So, please," on her shoulder, his grip grew firm, but still gentle as to not hurt her, "please, Kid—help me."
On her chest, Evangeline's tiny fist tensed over her heart, and resolutely, she looked down at the papers with a nod.
Hesitantly, the child knelt at his side, and Zack lowered to match her, attentive. In hand, she took the flier of Ray, reading it aloud to the best of her ability. "Missing child," she began, "Rachel Gardner. Blond hair… blue eyes. A-Age, uhm—"
"Fourteen," Zack already knew. "Skip ahead, look for an address or something," he told her, and doing as he said, she squinted. It took her a minute, but she deciphered it as best she could.
Reportedly—kid?—from [REDACTED] Mental Institute late May of this year, taken by escaped—?—Isaac Foster. Please report any and all information to Samuel Gardner, [(XXX) XXX-XXXX], "13…1300 Hazel Lane, Quin…Quinton Trailer Park."
Zack's expression lit up at the revelation.
"Trailer park?" he repeated, she nodded affirmatively. "Any idea where that is?" he asked, and Eve cupped her hand to her chin. Turning, she ran behind the front counter of the cafe check out, returning to Zack with a box of crayons. Flipping the flier over, she scribbled a haphazard but clear map—a mostly straight shot down a long road, it looked like. She wrote out the address in her best handwriting; even if Zack couldn't read, he could match up the letters, right? She held it up to his face.
"Here," she said simply, "I think."
His heart rose in optimism. "Better than nothing," he supposed.
Taking the paper in hand, he folded it back up, shoving it in his pocket. Looking back to the small girl in front of him, Zack next did something not only to her surprise, but his very own. Sliding his hands under the crook of Eve's arms, standing tall again, he held her up in the air. Eve peered down to him with bright, sparkling eyes and a look of wonder. Maybe she wasn't so bad after all.
"Thanks, Red."
Ray pushed past the swinging kitchen door, greeted with the sight of ornate decorations that reminded her of an old-timey diner she used to go to with her parents on Sundays after church. Her uncle was hunched over at the stove, and she approached him from behind.
"Is there anything I can help with?" she asked, and he hummed in reply.
"You can cut the pie if you want," he said, opening the fridge, taking out a carton of apple juice. "Careful, though," he said. "I just reheated it, so you don't wanna get burned," and, oh, Ray thought.
As Zack would so eloquently say: fucking never.
Taking a blade in hand from the kitchen knife block, Ray nodded casually—too casually for someone with her agenda, though her unaware uncle didn't seem to notice. He merely smiled to himself as he poured three cups of juice. Ray's already flat expression fell even flatter as she peered to his forearm from her peripheral.
"Hey, Uncle," Ray said suddenly, and curiously, with carton in hand, he looked over towards her, "that scar," she said, motioning to a warped, circular patch of skin on his arm, "what's it from?" asked Ray, and the very mention seemed to make him uncomfortable.
"It's," he cleared his throat, "it's from something that happened a long time ago. I made a mistake and it… came back to bite me."
Quite literally, if Ray had to guess. "I see," she replied simply, and her uncle smiled again, quick to move on from the subject. Unfortunately for him, Ray didn't think he'd be particularly happy with the next either. "I have another question," Ray said.
He looked towards her curiously.
"Do you believe in God?"
Given the portrait on the wall, she could only assume the answer, but even then, being who she was, she felt the need to know for sure. Pensively, he looked away, down towards the cups before him, only speaking after a long moment of contemplation. "I didn't always," he began, "but I do now. He came to me after I spent my time behind bars."
How convenient, Rachel thought.
"Adam always told me I should find Him," Sam explained, "but, I… I didn't take him seriously until after he was gone," he said, and Ray merely hummed. To say Adam Gardner, himself, knew God's divine presence would perhaps be a lie, but, truly, even as the girl who'd shot him dead after he'd killed his beloved wife in cold blood, who was Rachel to really say? "He," God, "saved me," Samuel went on, "and because of Him, I'll be forgiven."
Swiftly, Ray drove the knife into the warm pastry before her.
"And what do you need to be forgiven for?" she asked directly.
Like anyone, towards such a forward question, he didn't reply, but even as he didn't answer, Ray had yet to look towards him. "Sweetie, I've," his voice shook, "I've done a lot of bad things," he explained, and lifelessly, Ray's hand lowered to her side as she withheld the kitchen knife yet. For a long moment, she said nothing.
"I know," Ray told him finally, a darkness cloaking her tone now. "I know exactly what you've done."
Towards the fact, the only sound in the kitchen was the clatter of the carton he held as it fell to the floor. "Rachel," he said breathlessly, "I'm sorry," he choked out, and Ray merely sighed.
Was anyone really sorry, or did they just want to be forgiven?
"Why, Uncle?" Ray asked directly, and he began sniffling again, pathetically, to which Rachel didn't need to look to realize he was crying again, and she rolled her eyes. After a moment, she felt her uncle's arms on her shoulders from behind. Next thing she knew, he fell to his knees, letting out a heavy sob against her back as he said nothing. "Why are you apologizing to me?" asked Ray more pointedly. "You already know I'm not the one you need to be saying sorry to." Her uncle gasped, his grip on her loosening just enough to allow him to look at the back of Ray's blondish head. Slowly, she turned, an immaculately blank look on her face all the while.
"Because," he sobbed, "because, I—"
"Because you've sinned."
Without reluctance or hesitation, Rachel drove the kitchen knife into her dear uncle's chest.
After a long moment of shock, he fell forward, his thick, heavy body falling against Rachel's much smaller. While she chose to open her arms to him, Ray's words weren't as kind as her embrace.
"Nearly two decades ago, you lit an innocent little boy on fire in cold blood," Ray twisted the handle, and he let out an agonized gasp, arterial blood spurting from his wounded torso, "the boy who would go on to become the Back Alley Murderer."
Roughly, Ray shoved him away, and he fell to the kitchen tile. He tried to stand, struggling back to his feet, but before he could make it far at all, Ray grabbed a glass bottle on the counter, full of some clear, familiar liquid. With full force, she swung it over her uncle's head, and it shattered. He cried out in pain, and like the wound in his chest, a trail of thick blood appeared at the point of impact on his head. The second the liquid hit the air, dousing him, the atrocious, sharp smell of alcohol was overwhelming, and weakly, he slumped back to the floor.
"Murder is a sin, Uncle," Ray said calmly, looming over him, "and every person Isaac Foster has ever killed leads straight back to you, so no matter how much you repent," the man gazed up at her in shock and terror, though Ray merely watched with a contrary frigid intensity, as if she were unable to look away, didn't want to look away, relishing in every passing moment of his agony, "you will never, ever be forgiven."
He reached out to her weakly with a shaking hand, but he lost all strength part way, falling back to the floor as he choked and gagged, and turning calmly, Ray left him for dead.
Walking back into the living room, not much to her surprise given the ruckus, Clair was no longer there. Ray heard a frantic rummaging coming from the nearby bedroom, and following the sound's source, sure enough, the woman was hunched over as she dug through her dresser in a frenzy—on the bed, an open suitcase.
Reaching in her bag, she took in hand Zack's knife.
"Earlier, you asked me about that killer," Ray announced herself, and Clair looked over her shoulder quickly, "so, now, would you mind if I asked you a question of my own?"
She inhaled sharply through grit teeth, stumbling back, bracing herself against the dresser. "W-What do you want from me?!" she shouted, no longer attempting to hide her true feelings, her fear.
Ray merely hummed, somehow satisfied.
"Well, with all due respect, Ms. Foster," which was to say, none, "I was just wondering," for a moment, Ray trailed off as her hand rose from her side, the tip of her blade pointed directly towards the woman in front of her, "what kind of mother abandons her young son for the man who lit him on fire?"
Realizing now the true nature of Ray's moral alignment, Clair's gaze widened with apparent terror.
"T-That isn't—!"
"You give birth," Ray took a step nearer, to which Clair shuffled frantically, "then you take care of your child," Ray said. "It's that simple."
Tears bubbled in the woman's golden eyes, and as Ray encroached on her so near, she fell to the floor, looking up at the girl standing over her. "I never meant to—!"
"Never meant to what?" Ray cut her short, feeling uncharacteristically short of patience. "Destroy your son, or create a murderer?" On the knife, Ray's grip grew tense as she pointed it towards the center of the woman's chest. "You turned your back on him," Ray said, her tone rising in intensity, looking down at her, her gaze sharp on her as the blade's edge, "you were all he had, and you betrayed him!"
"I—!"
"No!" Ray cut her off. "You wrapped him up in those bandages," she shouted, "then left him at that orphanage to die!"
"That's not true!" she shook her head vigorously. "I loved him—I loved Isaac!" she proclaimed, curling into herself, weeping now, and Ray was nothing less than disgusted that this woman would claim such a thing, knowing deep in her heart that Clair Foster had no idea what love really was, because also in that moment, Ray realized that she, herself, actually did.
"No," Rachel whispered fiercely, "I do."
Thrusting her hand down, she took aim at the woman's chest with the point of her blade. Clair rolled over in the same beat, the edge catching only the side of her torso. She cried out in pain, but it wasn't bad enough to stop her from scrambling to her feet. Panting heavily, she ran away, but swiftly, Ray jolted after her. In the living room, the fearful woman sprinted towards the front door, but before she could take the knob in hand, Ray grabbed her by the bicep, slicing her across the cheek as she flinched away, cutting into her skin.
Realizing flight wasn't feasible, adrenaline rushed through Clair's veins, and she grabbed Rachel by the hair, who tried to jab her with the blade again, but as she did, the woman took Rachel's wrist to stop her, twisting her arm. With a sharp inhale, Ray dropped the knife, and the two struggled to overpower the other.
Unfortunately for Rachel, she was starting to realize where Zack got his strength from.
Clair shoved the girl to the floor, her hands clenching Ray's neck in a vice grip, who gasped and flailed, struggling to maintain a flow of air in her forcibly restrained windpipe as she reached frantically for Zack's knife. It was no use as her mind started to blur.
No.
I… I can't give up. I can fix this. I have to. I have to show Zack—I have to prove to him…
I have to prove, that I really—
I… really—
Suddenly, the weight atop her was forcibly shoved off as an aggressive, familiar voice cried out.
Like a flash of lightning, Isaac Foster tackled his mother to the floor, throwing her across the room, reunited for the first time in nearly twenty years. Regaining balance, he looked back at the girl on the ground. "Ray!" he ran to her side. She wavered to sit up as she gasped weakly, reaching out to him, and he reached back with the intent to take her in his arms, but Zack was cut off as the wind was knocked out of him.
His mother threw herself back at him in retaliation, though he merely stumbled before catching himself again. "I-I should've—killed you, all those years ago!" she shouted, and Zack grit his teeth in fury.
Her son's arm jutted forward, and he gripped her by the neck, choking her out with two decades of pent-up fury.
"Yeah, ya probably should'a!" Zack shouted aggressively, anger intense and personal in a way it'd never been as she swatted at him and gagged. His ears rang, and his fingertips began going numb from how tight he held her beneath his grip. "Bitch, you—!" he shouted, therein cut short as Clair reached up towards his eyes, taking in hand the same wraps she'd once bound him in as a child.
With her long, sharp nails, she clawed at his face, ripping through his bandages.
Simultaneously, she tore into his flesh, scratching him, and Zack, feeling the air on his bare skin, lost his breath. Against his will, his grip relented in shock and realization, and the woman fell to the floor in a heap. Reflexively, his hand rose to cover his face, and taking full advantage of the moment she'd been given, Clair reached for the befallen combat knife on the floor. With a cry, she pivoted on her heel, lunging at Zack to drive the blade in his chest.
For some reason, he was unable to move.
Figures, he thought calmly.
He supposed if it had to end, it'd be just his luck that it'd end like this—the same place it started, taken out of the world by the same horrible woman who'd brought him in. Shielding his face, he slammed shut his eyes and held his breath. He wouldn't really say he had regrets, but there was one thing he wished for.
He wished he could've kept his promise with Ray.
Needless to say, Ray felt similarly.
Bang.
Instantaneously, Zack's asymmetric gaze parted to the sight of bright red bloodspatter. The eyes of his mother, the same golden ones he'd inherited, went dark as the life drained out of her in a heartbeat. Lowering his hand from his face, he looked over to Rachel, who stood holding her smoking gun with both hands, and forgetting all about the woman she'd just shot in the head, she gazed back at Zack with wide-eyed, intense wonder, stunned completely to her core.
His young love gazed upon the most blatant him for the first time ever—upon his unbandaged, scarred, disfigured face.
His true face.
"Zack—"
Lost in the sight of him, Ray was abruptly cut short, gasping in unmistakable agony.
It was an agony Zack could never comprehend, not now nor ever, and shaking slightly, the girl peered down with stun, her gaze landing upon Zack's knife—Zack's knife, which had been driven into her stomach.
A moment of disbelief followed, and Zack watched helplessly as Ray toppled to the floor. Then, for as much as he wished to run to her side, he was stunned by the sight of yet another horrific ghost of his past, arguably, the most haunting.
He gazed upon the man who, twenty years ago, in this very room, lit him on fire.
And just like those twenty years ago, he extended his pointer finger to Zack, laughing. For a moment, Zack recognized the sharp scent of alcohol, vodka, but it faded too as the man said something, taunting him, though Zack couldn't hear anymore either, his vision blurring red. All his senses dulled, his pulse racing painfully in his veins, making him remember the first time he asked, "What can I do to make this irritation stop?" and now, he finally knew.
Embracing his greatest fear, Zack reached in his pocket, pulling out the lighter he'd dug from the couch earlier.
Flipping open the metal cap, Foster sparked the switch, igniting the flame. While he usually reveled in the reaction of his victims, he stared calmly now as terror filled the man's eyes, but before he could turn tail and run, Zack threw the lighter at him, and he went up in flames. He screamed at the top of his lungs, falling to the floor in a heap, consumed by karma and agony. Zack watched intently as the man helplessly burned alive, satiating his relentless bloodlust in a way like never before.
Isaac Foster wasn't powerless anymore, and never would he be again.
Eventually, the man stopped moving completely, but despite the fact, the flames showed no intent to cease, spreading out from the source, burning the nearby rug and drapes. Realizing as much, without a moment to catch his breath, Zack finally turned back to Rachel, who lay on her back, her long hair falling in her face. His senses only began to return as he recognized a pool of bright red gathering beneath her, matching the little trail of blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth.
"Ray!" he called frantically as he finally ran to her side, instantly tearing his most cherished blade from his most cherished girl. Taking her into his arms, Zack clamped his hand over her bleeding flesh wound as he propped her up. "Ray, say something!" he shouted desperately, but she didn't move. With an intense heat burning at the back of his neck now, he jostled her slightly. "Ray!"
So very much to his unimaginable relief, Ray's blonde lashes parted just slightly, her dull blue gaze meeting his. "Zack," Ray's small voice called back.
"Thank fuck," he said as he began to stand, "we have to—!"
As he tried to move her, Ray cried out loudly in pain.
Terrified to hear her react so viscerally, he quickly stopped moving, overwhelmed by a manner of distress he'd not felt in over a year—the same distress he'd felt the last time Ray was injured so fatally. So much against his better judgment, he knew time was fleeting as the entire room began wafting with smoke, and he dare look down, acknowledge the wound on her stomach, from which her blood pooled thick and relentlessly, soaking into his hoodie. "Shit," he muttered frantically, knowing full well the only thing that'd even potentially save her were stitches and antibiotics, but even if he had those things, it wasn't like he'd know how to provide the intricate care she needed. If he took her to the hospital, she'd just get thrown back in the mental ward, and he'd probably be executed on sight.
The flames around them burned ferociously, and yet, for the first time in his life, fire wasn't what scared him the most.
"What… What should I do?" As if pleading with her personally, Zack gripped her tighter against him. "Tell me what to do, Ray—you have to tell me what to do!" he begged, and for as much as he needed her guidance in that and all moments, he'd come to regret having asked at all.
"You… already know," Ray said weakly.
Shakily, Ray's fingertips reached out, taking in hand the blade she loved so much, bringing it up to him. Recognizing her wavering grip, Zack reached out, swiftly grabbing her wrist, holding it with her. For as much as he wanted to play dumb to her meaning, like always, she made things perfectly clear for him.
"Zack," Ray breathed, "kill me."
His mouth hung slightly agape as he looked upon the fiery orange reflecting in her otherwise dull eyes. After a moment, he shook his head slightly, like he couldn't comprehend the one thing he could always count on. "I," he choked out, gritting his teeth, "I can't, not yet!"
"You have to," Ray told him.
He lowered his head. "What about our promise?!" She was the one who'd said it, right? That they weren't done yet? Zack winced, his arms around her gripping Ray tighter, as if brute strength was the only thing that could possibly stop her from slipping away. Wanting nothing more than to save her in the same way he always had, the only way he knew how, the tables were turned on him as he suddenly felt Ray's slender fingertips shift from the knife, pressed against his barren jaw, comforting him instead.
"Zack," Rachel said softly, her intonation foreign, so fond and adoring in a way he'd never known—never thought he could. Delicately, she caressed his face, his honest face, and in her eyes, as if truly in awe and wonder at the sight of him, Zack almost thought he'd seen something he'd never before thought possible.
Light.
"You are," Ray exhaled breathlessly, "so beautiful."
Then, so very against her will, Ray's lids drew to a close.
With her consciousness fading completely, Rachel's hand fell lifelessly from his jaw to her side, thudding against the floor. Stunned, Zack's breath hitched and he gasped in terror, forgetting all about the flames around them as he gazed upon the lifeless Ray in his arms, then to his knife, then back to her—and that's when he finally, finally realized it.
He wanted to kill Rachel Gardner.
But he didn't want Rachel Gardner to die.