Chapter 17: The Reason Why
Hey, I wonder…
When I die, will anyone cry? Will anyone grieve for me?
Hey, if I just disappeared, I wonder… would you be better off? Would tomorrow be easier for you?
Hey, I wonder…
When I'm gone, are you going to forget me, too?
Late that evening, Lawrence sat in his recliner chair beside a dim lamp, Eve nestled in his lap, snuggled against his chest as she snoozed. On the end table beside them was the storybook she'd had earlier; she'd asked him to read it for her, but she'd fallen asleep before she could hear the ending. He ran his hand down the back of her head, stroking her hair gently, humming in her ear some lullaby or another, though his lovely serenade was interrupted by the cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He took the device in hand, and looking down at the lit-up front display, he was faced with a sudden conundrum of what felt a bit like life or death: Zack.
Answer the phone, or let his resting daughter sleep?
Well, he supposed it'd be rude not to answer.
Lawrence picked it up. "Zack?" he answered softly. "Goodness, my friend, what has you up at this hour?" he asked naturally, a hint of playfulness resounding to follow. "I hope a call this late will be worth my while."
Unfortunately, even less-so than normal, Zack wasn't so quick to return his amusement.
"It's… it's Ray," he said after a long moment, always quick to the point, all cool-headed pretense he'd feigned before now dissipating, and recognizing the urgent tone of his voice, Larry's flirtation was fleeting equally.
"What happened?" he asked, a sense of seriousness returning.
"She," Zack replied tensely, apprehensive, "she's been stabbed."
Larry's jaw fell agape slightly. "...Stabbed?" he repeated beneath his breath, disbelief clear, shocked as any normal person would be. Likely on account of the concerned tone of his voice, the sleepy Eve stirred slightly, though he rocked her softly in his arms. "By whom?" he asked, turning his head and speaking quieter.
"I," Zack exhaled, at a loss, "I can't say."
Larry's brow knit together towards such an odd reply, but certainly, he'd learned better than to prod by this point. "Well," he replied as he thought over the choices in front of them, "perhaps it'd be wise to take her to the E.R.?"
A long pause.
"I can't," Zack repeated.
Larry gave an exhale, and despite her resting eyes, he felt Eye's small fist on his chest flex as she gripped his coat. "Is there anything you can tell me?" he asked reasonably, and an even longer pause followed—perhaps the longest Isaac Foster would ever, in his life, entertain.
"I need help," he confessed, forgetting the lifetime of pride he'd upheld until right now.
Looking down, his daughter's long, auburn lashes parted, her reddish gaze meeting his, a look of apprehensive knowing showing preemptively upon her expression—to which, somehow, Larry understood the situation perfectly now. "Very well," he told Zack. "Bring her here and we'll see what we can do," he said resolutely, and with a vague, affirmative "thanks", Zack quickly hung up the phone. Tucking his cell back in his pocket, Lawrence exhaled a sigh, again peering at Eve, who seemed pensive.
"Trouble," she said quietly, and exhaling a soft laugh, Larry gave her a weak smile. Pressing his lips to the side of her forehead, her temple, he stood, still holding the little girl in his arms. She held onto him tightly.
Sure enough, "Trouble."
In the open doorway, Zack stood before Larry in the dead of night.
Over his face, Zack fashioned a bandanna, and he reeked of smoke, accompanying what little skin was visible around his eyes—stained darker than normal. In his arms, he held Rachel, whose clothing was drenched in bright red, soaking from her and onto his bandages. A trail of blood trickled down her arm as it hung at her side, dripping from her fingertips to the floor. "Rachel…" a concerned Eve peeked out from behind her father, weakly gripping the side of his long coat in her tiny hand.
"Christ," Lawrence added, "what in the world—?"
"I'll answer all your questions after I know she's okay," Zack cut him short. "Fair?"
Fully witnessing her dire state now, all things considered, Lawrence reacted with a commendable sense of composure. "Right," he agreed. "Put her on the table," he said quickly, stepping to the side and gesturing for him to do so. Wordlessly, Zack did as instructed, setting the unconscious Ray down on her back, applying pressure to her wound. Larry pressed his pointer and index to the side of her throat.
Zack, knowing himself useless to do much else, merely gripped Ray's lifeless hand as if lay at her side.
"Her pulse is faint, but she's still with us." He looked back up to Zack. "May I?" he asked, nodding to the wound beneath Zack's grip, who reluctantly removed his bloody hand. Larry unzipped the hoodie she wore and peeled back the tattered shirt to expose her lower stomach, dark crimson seeping from the incision he inspected. "You got her here quick enough that I don't think she'll need a doctor's care," knowingly, he peered up to Zack for a second, "lucky for you," he gazed back down, "but she'll certainly need stitches." Lawrence looked to the no longer sleepy girl at his side. "My darling, go fetch a wet cloth and the first aid kid from the back room, yes?"
Nodding, she trotted off, quickly returning with a small white box adoring a red cross on the front. She held it and the cloth up to him, and Larry took it in hand. Pressing the damp fabric to Ray's open wound, he cleaned the blood best he could—periodically sending Eve to the sink to rinse the washcloth clear. After a few minutes, the bleeding slowed, and he applied some sort of murky ointment to it, likely the same kind Ray would incessantly insist she apply to Zack after he'd been hurt. Zack could discern a few drops of sweat gathering on the side of the other man's forehead, which he wiped away as he removed his hands from Rachel.
"Right," Larry exhaled, and Zack looked at him curiously, anxious, as he merely peered down at his daughter, and Zack, doing the same, suddenly noticed a small sewing kit in her hands. "If you would, darling," he said, stepping aside, and Eve nodded calmly.
Cut to Zack, alert as he took Lawrence's meaning.
"The hell!" Zack threw his hand on Eve's shoulder, holding her back. "You're gonna let the kid do it?!" he shouted, though Larry remained calm, offering a somewhat sterner gaze than typical. He put a gentle hand to Zack's chest, separating him from the child.
"Trust me," he reassured him. "Evangeline's a much better seamstress than neither you nor myself could ever hope to be," he told him confidently, but Zack wasn't convinced.
"Are you crazy?" he spat. "Ray's a person, not a handkerchie–!"
He gripped Zack's shoulder tightly now, catching him off-guard, stopping him mid-sentence.
"You brought Ms. Rachel here because you needed our help, didn't you?" he pressed him, a moderate urgency in his tone. Zack's mouth hung slightly agape, but the weak look upon his expression spoke volumes. "I told you, yes?" He stared him directly in the face. "There's more to my daughter than meets the eye," he said intently. "So, if you truly wish to save Ms. Rachel, you'll let her do this."
Zack grit his teeth, clenching his fist, conflict clear. He held Ray's unmoving hand tighter, as if her hold would somehow answer the difficult decisions in front of him. For some reason, Zack was surprised to feel a smaller palm gripping his back, though not the one beneath him. Eve placed her hand atop his, and he looked down, her large, red eyes gaze peering back to meet him with full sincerity and comfort. "Let me help," she said kindly, and he was then reminded of their exchange earlier this evening. He supposed she'd given him no reason to believe otherwise.
"You're the only one who can help me."
After a moment, Zack relented, stepping back from Rachel reluctantly, allowing Eve a silent permission.
Confidently, she nodded again. Steadfast, the little girl threaded her needle, not an ounce of apprehension nor fear showing on her face despite the pressure. Her intensity honestly reminded him of Ray when she found herself in situations like this—all the times when she'd stitched up his busted ass after he did something stupid. As if it were nothing at all, she confidently readied her needle, therein delving it into Ray's marred flesh.
Quickly as it started, she sewed up the incision with small, precise sutures.
Somehow, by the end of it, Zack could still discern the rise and fall of Rachel's chest, her breath shallow but certain. Letting out a deep heave of his own, Zack flopped down in one of the cafe chairs as he watched Eve patch a pad of gauze over the tended wound for good measure. Larry pulled up a seat next to him, scrubbing away the remaining sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A long realization followed as both men processed the scene before them, recognizing all that'd just happened.
By some miracle in Heaven, Ray was stable.
Lawrence nodded back to the girls, calling the younger's attention. "Eve, sweetheart?" he said. "Run upstairs and grab that new lace nightgown—the one that's a bit big for you, yes? Then come back down and help Ms. Rachel get changed. It might be a touch small on her, but it's better than a bloody sweatshirt," he told her, and she nodded, doing as instructed, trotting up the stairs. On their lonesome, Larry turned back to Zack, who said nothing yet, still reasonably stunned. Feeling a large, heavy hand on his shoulder, Zack finally gazed over to the man at his side, who lent him a weak, however relieved smile.
"I'm sure I already know your answer, so I'll skip the offer," for his own sake, if nothing else, "but," Larry let out a small laugh beneath his breath, "I think I've earned a smoke."
Putting out the aforementioned cigarette beneath his boot, the lights of an old, however neatly-kempt home flickered as Larry flipped on the switch, walking through the front door. He peered around the front room, assessing things—everything was in its place, same as he left it. "You're sure no one will find us here?" asked Zack from behind him, holding the reclothed, resting Ray bridal-style in his arms, cautiously peering around just the same.
"It's been some time since anyone lived here," Lawrence reassured him. "They passed away a few years ago, but this was my parents house when they were alive," he explained, and Zack let out a disinterested "hm", settling Ray on the couch. He knelt at her side, peering at her sleeping visage, brushing her long blonde fringe befallen in her face. Such an attentive gaze didn't go past Lawrence's notice.
Larry narrowed his eyes, feeling nothing if not deeply, deeply curious now.
"Miracle girl, this one," he said, settling to sit on the side-rest of the couch, observing Zack more-so than the aforementioned. "Tell me… this isn't the first time something like this has happened, is it?"
Zack's brow knit together weakly, wishing he could just avoid this part, but being who he was, he knew it best just to give it forward. Ultimately, he shook his head. "She's been through a lot," and not just within the last twenty-four hours. "Hell'u'va lot more than I ever have."
Larry hummed in reply, "I can scarcely imagine," he replied, taking a step, facing away from Zack fully. He rummaged in his pocket, already pulling out his pack of cigarettes again. "We all have things in the past—things we'd rather forget," he said softly, and in the pit of his chest, Zack felt something odd, though he wasn't sure what it was—as if Lawrence were speaking to his heart personally. Even now, he couldn't figure this guy out.
This was weird, right?
No normal person would open their home to a girl bleeding out and the shady bandaged man who followed her around, fix her up, then give them a place to stay, no questions asked—right?
"So?" Zack asked, and Larry looked up at him curiously. "Don't leave me hangin'," he huffed a laugh, "whadda you wanna forget?"
Rattling around the few sticks that were left in the small pack in his hand, Lawrence shrugged. "Can't say I always had the most simple childhood, but if I had to guess, I think I might be preaching to the choir," he gave a small chuckle. "You could laugh or you could cry, you know?"
A morbid pause.
"You're tellin' me."
Oh, how he missed the good ol' days of lurkin' around the alleyways on his own, not bothering to give a damn about whom he was killing, their history, whether they "deserved" it or not, killing indiscriminately all while he had a smile on his face and laughter in the air. Who would've thought murder would be so complicated these days.
"And yourself?" Larry asked in turn, almost catching Zack off-guard for some reason. "What is it you'd like to forget?" he inquired, offering a gentle smile, tilting his head slightly.
For a long moment, Zack said nothing, knowing there were just about a million things he'd forget if he could: his mother wrapping him up in those bandages, being lit on fire by that bastard, burying corpses in the pouring rain, but in the end, there was but one thing he, from the bottom of his heart, wished above all that he could just forget, something he wanted nothing more than to move on from, because he knew full well he never would. Zack peered down to the sleeping Rachel's beautiful, resting visage—fully reminded of the hesitation he felt as she lay unmoving in his arms earlier, begging him to end her once and for all, but he couldn't.
It was her.
She was what made killing so complicated.
The gentle look on Larry's face dissipated to one of sympathy. "I see." Exhaling a sigh, he withheld a long pause, as if there were something more he wanted to say. "That girl," he finally said, speaking quieter now, "Ms. Rachel," he looked down at her resting face, "your everything," he trailed off. "She's not your sister," he realized, "and you're not her guardian," Larry said, a serious intonation about his voice now, one that made Zack's hair stand on end at the base of his neck. Knowingly, Lawrence looked him squarely in the eye.
Ah, Larry thought, if only this were the seventies, and he were oblivious to the hindrances of smoking indoors.
"She's your lover."
Incriminated in, somehow, the worst and most unexpected way possible, notorious serial killer, Isaac Foster, said nothing.
Larry realized his answer: guilty as charged.
Slowly rising to his feet, with a visceral sharpness, Zack now leered at the other man, seeming as if he were about to grab him by the trendy haircut and slam his head in the door. "If looks could kill, my friend," Larry laughed lightly, but Zack only grit his teeth in turn, his fists clenched tight at his sides. "Relax, now," he told him with a wave of his hand. "All judgements I could make would be founded in hypocrisy, don't you think?" he said, and with his aggression dissipating slightly in place of confusion, Zack rose an eyebrow.
"Huh?"
The fuck did that mean?
"I've spent my entire life being told I'm broken for loving whom I've loved," he said, as if it were that simple. "I, of all people, know that a person can't control how they feel."
Wait a sec—the hell?
Zack was almost suspicious in disbelief. Was this guy really trying to compare their circumstances? There's no way he actually believed something like that, right? (Or was he really that stupid?) Only one of them was actually fucked in the head, the other was just someone… that people didn't want to understand.
It didn't take a serial killer to realize that.
Little more than uncomfortable despite the reassurance, Foster rose a hand to cover his eyes, groaning. "Come now, Zack," Larry put a hand on the other man's shoulder, though he was quickly shoved off, "she doesn't seem unhappy, so the nature of your relationship with Ms. Rachel is ultimately of little consequence to me," he reassured him. "I think no differently of you."
You prolly fuckin' should?
"It ain't that," he muttered, and Larry tried to look him in the eye, but he turned away more-so. Guarded, this one.
"I have no plans to speak of your personal life to anyone," he added knowingly, and despite the fact, rubbing his temples, Zack released a deep exhale in his stress.
Sure, maybe he didn't know who he was when they met, maybe he didn't know the full story, but certainly he knew enough now to detest him like the rest of the damn world, or, hell—in a different way, he knew even more about just how fuckin' screwed up he was.
Something just wasn't adding up.
"What," Zack said quietly, pointedly, "are you going to do, then?"
Towards his question, Larry peered back to Zack with his typical, friendly smile. "I'm going home to put my young, very tired daughter to bed, then easily do the same myself," he sighed. "Might I recommend the same for you, my friend? You're looking rather weary this evening."
Understatement of a lifetime.
"You know what I meant, man," Zack finally relented to his truer tone, frustration clear. "Doesn't any of this," y'know, "bother you? Why the hell are you doing all this for us?"
Larry tossed his head lightly, contemplating the fact. "It's true that I may have," he cleared his throat, "a few questions—but should that be reason enough to turn away an injured girl need?" he replied casually, like it were nothing at all. "I mean, do you always need a reason to help someone in the first place?" he asked, and Zack felt an odd tension gathering in his shoulders as he realized his own answer.
Uhm, yes?
"Ms. Rachel was unwell, and you said she couldn't be taken to the hospital," Larry explained resolutely. "She needed assistance, and you came to us, so, really, that's all there is to it," he declared, turning back towards the door as he took the end of another cigarette between his lips. Reaching for the doorknob, he was stopped by the feeling of another's palm on his non-dominant hand. He gave a moderate exhale amidst the long silence.
"How do I know we can trust you?" Zack asked, and after a moment, Larry looked back over his shoulder, a sort of tire showing despite his ever-permeating friendliness.
"Have I given you reason to think otherwise?" he asked fairly, and Zack narrowed his eyes.
"Can't really say," Zack replied menacingly, gripping tighter Lawrence's wrist as he spoke lowly, glaring cautiously. "Have you?"
"My," he took the cigarette between his fingertips again, "are you saying you'd like to get to know me better?" he winked at him, seeming almost sly as he smiled now. "At least buy me a drink first."
"Cut the shit, dude," Zack rolled his eyes, growing more and more fed up with every insufferable reply. "How the hell are you okay with any of this?"
"Because," with a soft grin, he supposed fair was fair, "maybe we're not so different, you and I," Larry began slowly.
"As if," Foster replied with a "tch". Lawrence hummed, already knowing it'd take more than a flimsy offer of reassurance with the man at his side.
"You asked about the things in my past I would like to forget, yes?" Larry said quietly. "When first we met, I believe I told you… that I was adopted, and a few years ago now," he went on, "you see, those people, the ones who raised me," he trailed off, his brow knitting together slightly, "they were killed in their sleep." Zack's hard expression grew a touch irresolute, clearly surprised to hear as much. For them to have died was one thing, but, "They were murdered," Larry reiterated as he turned, once more making a direct eye connection with the other man, something darker in his gaze now, "by none other," he said, and Zack could practically feel the air trembling, "than the infamous Back Alley Murderer."
With such a revelation, Zack abruptly let go of Lawrence's wrist, saying absolutely nothing for a long, long moment.
"…You bastard!"
Sporadically, he jolted forward with his hand clenched tight, only to slam his fist against Lawrence's unsuspecting jaw, full-force. "You do know who I am!" he shouted above the pained exclamation that resonated from Larry's mouth on impact. He took him by the scruff of his shirt, shoving him to the floor, forcing his weight atop him as he pinned him down. In the air, Zack brandished the same fist as before.
"How could I not?" Larry hissed bitterly, gripping Zack's wrist as he withheld him. "Your face is all over the news!"
"You motherfucker—you lied to me!" Zack cursed, clenching his teeth so forcibly that it hurt. Reaching over, he dug blindly in Ray's bag, his hand landing on the handle of his familiar blade. He pulled it out, holding its edge to Larry's throat. "What the hell kinda game are you playin' with us?!"
"What do you mean?" he replied indignantly. "Do you really think I'd mend up a dying girl and harbor a wanted criminal on a whim?" A look of genuine offense showed on Larry's expression. "Everything I've done has been in full sincerity!"
"Bullshit!" Zack shouted, slamming his hand down aside Larry's head, narrowly missing his skull as the edge of the knife was plunged into the floorboards. "What, ya plannin' on turnin' me in, sendin' Ray back to the hospital where she'll be miserable?!"
"I told you, I have no such—!"
"Or maybe," Zack said sharply, his hands clamping over Larry's neck in full now, who gasped with the wind knocked out of him, and struggling, he tossed his head to the side, "you want revenge for dear ol' mom and dad, is that it?"
A scrawny fuck like this?
Psh, I'd like to see you try.
Suddenly, seemingly towards such a mention, the man beneath him stopped moving completely, gazing to the side distantly. He relented his grip on Zack's wrists, hands falling to rest beside his head as he once more turned his gaze upwards to the man who pinned him, the long, wavy fringe typically covering the left half of his face befallen aside to fully reveal his honest visage. Even as Zack gazed upon Lawrence blatantly now, he still stared back with one, lone optic.
Across his closed eye was a long, jagged, deep scar.
"On the contrary, my friend," Larry said calmly, his expression almost vacant, "I wanted to thank you."
Reasonably confused, if not a touch stunned, Zack's brow knit together as he looked down at the man he pinned, observing the clear but faded cut on his face. Small, light stitch marks neatly bordered either side, indicating it was once sewn up, and it reminded Zack of the once self-inflicted gash on his stomach. Slowly, in his bewilderment, his grip around the other man's neck grew slack.
"Wh… What?"
Zack rose from him slightly, allowing Larry to sit up as gazed back with honest sincerity, rubbing the base of his aching throat. "I wanted to thank you, Zack," he repeated. "While they may have kept a roof over my head and food on the table—let's just say," he reached up, brushing his hair back to conceal the scar over his eye, "the couple who took me in were of the few not always the most accepting of my life choices."
Lawrence gave an almost inaudible sigh, throwing up his eyes at the holy cross hanging on the far wall.
Oh.
"Imagine my father's surprise, the day he came home to his teenage son kissing the football team's star quarterback on the couch," he let out a defeated, humorless laugh. "Needless to say, my life and face were never the same since."
Looking away, Zack couldn't help but feel that the situation did, in fact, sound oddly familiar.
(Well, y'know—not that first thing with the football player.)
Despite the fact that he'd just nearly been choked out by the man at his side, Lawrence showed no hesitation as he reached out once more, placing his hand lightly upon Zack's shoulder. "I was… on the verge of taking my own life, and then, you came along and seemed to solve all my problems." A weak, almost uncomfortable expression showed on Zack's face, despite Larry's clear sincerity. "I suppose you could say… I've felt a sort of camaraderie with you for quite a while, long since before we even met," Larry confessed, and Zack threw out a skeptical look.
"Not somethin' you wanna be sayin' to a guy like me," he muttered.
"Maybe you're right," Larry gave a light laugh, one certainly inappropriate for such a dark situation, "but even if we're different people," with vastly different experiences, "I can tell," he tilted his head slightly, "something bad once happened to you too, yes?" he realized. "The reason you wear those bandages? The reasons you do the very complicated things you do?"
Zack looked down to the dirty wraps covering his hands, for a moment, at a loss, and while he may have said nothing, his answer was loud and clear.
Removing his hand from Zack's shoulder, Larry gave a small hum. "As I presumed," he said, and Zack groaned in annoyance, "so, maybe we have more in common than you first thought, hm?" he suggested, but of course, Zack was no happier to entertain the contrary.
Maybe… he wasn't completely wrong.
He let out a deep, dragging sigh, nothing if not exhausted from this turn of events among everything else he'd endured in the last twenty-four hours. "Any other truthbombs you wanna drop on me about myself?" he said with a humorless laugh, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.
Offering a chuckle of his own, Larry rubbed the side of his jaw where Zack had struck him before. "Hell of a right cross you've got there," he said as he stood, "but other than that, I think we've covered enough for tonight." He turned, facing away now, and Zack merely gazed at the back of his head as Lawrence's silent focus remained upon the iron cross on the wall. "For what it's worth," Larry said after a moment, speaking somehow fondly, "even if I've not been entirely honest, I'm glad we met."
Like everyone else, "You won't feel that way forever," he reassured him coldly. "Trust me."
Larry gave a gentle laugh on the contrary. "I suppose we'll just have to see," the other man replied softly, his hand falling on the doorknob again, "but nothing can change the fact that you've done more for me than I can express." Peering over his shoulder, Lawrence lent Zack his signature wink, and now more than ever, it left him unsettled. "Thank you," Larry said as he took his leave, "my good friend."
Left in his lonesome, it was only now starting to become apparent to Zack—what it was about Larry that made him feel so uncomfortable from the very start.
It wasn't his abundant kindness, or his overly-friendly nature, even the weird way he flirted with him to get on his nerves. Sure, it was annoying as shit, but unlike he had first assumed, it wasn't any of those things that caused him to feel unnerved around him. It was because he was right—there was something about him that, for better or worse, a small part of Zack's heart may have related to.
Not that he was ever about to admit it.
From the lace curtain on the far, large window, she could feel the dawning sun on her somnolent visage.
Narrowly, Rachel opened her eyes, greeted with the last moments of the setting day. She'd slept through the afternoon, and it was a miracle she'd awoken so soon, but nothing if not a survivor, for a girl with a death wish, Rachel's consciousness returned faintly to recognize a hazy, dark, familiar figure across the room. Equally, he realized her awakening.
"This, Ray," Zack's hoarse voice said, as if he'd long awaited for her to rouse, "this is why."
With a hand to her head, Rachel sat up, looking about the area, as if trying to familiarize herself to her surroundings. It was certainly a nicer space than the Carlisle residence, almost vintage in its decor, the sheets covering her being soft as silk at that. To her disappointment, she was no longer wearing his hoodie, but instead, the fabric clothing her body was that of a fancy, lace nightgown—gorgeous and delicate, yet a touch short on her, narrowly falling upon her upper thighs, covering just hardly what it needed to. Maneuvering to sit on her knees, she was forced to acknowledge the aching wound in her side, though equally, her heart skipped a beat as it was reminded of what last she saw as her consciousness faded.
Rachel looked back to her companion across the way.
"Zack," she replied as he rose to his feet, taking a few steps to stand over her as she sat on the bed, his long shadow cast upon her eclipsed visage as she stared at his re-taped face. "You—" Ray said, but before she could so much as finish her thought, he rose an arm, causing the girl to stop mid-sentence, staring in wide-eyed, however certain belief of what would happen next.
"Shut up!"
Reeling forward, Zack swept his arm horizontally in front of him, clipping his open palm flat and ruthlessly against his beloved's jaw, firmly striking Rachel across the face.
Though she didn't make a sound, the force was enough to make Ray fall to her side on the mattress, barely catching herself with her arms as she remained propped up slightly. Her hair fell in her face, covering her eye, and while she knew he'd held back, using only a fraction of his inhuman strength, the pain reminded her viscerally of the way her father used to hit her when she would misbehave.
She supposed she deserved it then, and just as rightfully now.
Unmoving, the side of her face had already begun shifting towards a deep purple-reddish shade, and she looked to Zack from the corner of her eye, knowing better than to say anything. She recognized the rage in his expression, and while it wasn't uncommonly directed at her, it felt somehow much more personal this time.
"You really think this is what I want?" Zack's voice lowered again, grounded to a gritty whisper. "You really think I wanna leave?" he asked bitterly, and as Ray opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off preemptively. "You're not the only who's fuckin' torn up inside that I can't stay with you!" he shouted, causing Ray to finally turn and face him, a blank look on her aching expression all the while.
"Then, why?" she said, forever monotone even despite his verbal and physical aggression. "Why are you doing it if it's not what you want, either?" Ray asked, and it only made his frustration run deeper, because no matter what he did, it was beginning to feel like it'd never be enough to make her understand.
"Are you kidding me, Ray?" he hissed indignantly. Did the illiterate one really have to spell it out for her? "Because," if last night wasn't any indication, "every second you're with me, you're in danger—there's always going to be someone coming after us, someone who wants me dead and wants to take you away from me, either to throw you back in the hospital, or bury you six feet under." More likely the former than the latter, at that.
"You think I don't already know that?" she asked blankly.
"No, I don't think you do!" Zack replied without missing a beat. "I know you think there's nothing wrong with your head, Ray, but there is," pretty fuckin' seriously, might he add, "and because of it, you have this warped understanding of reality, where you think everything'll be okay so long as we're together—but it's only making that fucked-up head of yours worse!"
To Rachel, of course, that wasn't the least bit true. "Being with you is the only time things make sense," she stated simply.
"Oh my fucking god," he said, his voice exasperated beneath his breath as he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and middle finger. "Look at yourself, Ray!" he gestured towards her aggressively. It didn't take some fucking psyche doctor to realize that she didn't—no, she couldn't see things for what they really were, she was literally incapable. "What world do you live in that this 'makes sense'!"
"The same one as you," Rachel answered curtly, "and going back to the normal one isn't possible for either of us," she said, and yeah, okay, sanity was way out of the picture, because this was still the part she wasn't getting.
A normal life wasn't possible for him, but easily, she could have one picturesque.
Without a doubt, Ray could get adopted by a nice family who would care and provide for her, get her the help she needed to be normal again. She could go back to school, make real friends, graduate and get a job—succeed. Certainly, she could meet a nice guy, get married, start a happy family of her own, the only thing she'd ever said she really wanted. Even if, by some way in hell, one of the million murders she'd been behind were linked back to her, there was a much better chance she'd get off easy—forget the death penalty, and, while he certainly didn't want it, Zack could never, ever hope to have any of that, and that meant no one associated with him ever would either.
"If you stay with me, Ray, you're gonna spend the rest of your life running, fighting, and killing."
Despite his very clear explanation this time, Ray merely tilted her head with a blank stare, seeming as though she still didn't understand. "And?" she said calmly, though it only made him all the more furious.
And?
"Whadda ya mean 'and'!" he replied incredulously, hair-trigger temper ignited by one, simple word. "It's gonna kill your ass before I ever get the chance!" Case in point, most recently: "That fucker would'a murdered you if I hadn't've saved yo—!"
"Like how your mother nearly killed you before I shot her?" Ray cut him short, to which his anger flared as she had the spine to say as much.
"I didn't ask you to, Ray!" Zack exclaimed. "It's your fault I ended up in that situation to begin with!" Though he already knew she would never be able to see it that way. "A while ago, you asked me of thinkin' about the past made me upset, right? And, no—thinking doesn't, but when I'm forced to stare it in the fuckin' face? That sure as shit ain't no walk in the park!" He gestured with a clenched fist. "You made me go back to the one place in the entire world I never wanted to see again!" he shouted, to which Ray looked him dead in the eye before replying.
"I don't care what you want," she declared bluntly.
Almost taken aback, though he wholly shouldn't've been, Zack gave a pause, his fists loosening, gaze narrowed in on her bitterly as an unfamiliar but clear ache beat in the pit of his chest. "Tell me somethin' I don't already fuckin' know," he muttered acridically.
"I knew it'd be dangerous," Ray said, lowering her gaze, "but if it meant getting revenge on the people who hurt you," she put a hand over her nightgown, the wound on her lower stomach, "I'd do it all again."
"That wasn't for my sake," he hissed as he leaned down to meet her at eye level, leering. "It was for yours," he already knew, and Rachel merely tilted her head, otherwise unfazed by the accusation, seeming only curious. "Stop pretending like you've ever done a damn thing for anyone else besides yourself!"
"That's hypocritical of you," she said, "don't you think?"
Zack rose an eyebrow, still narrowed in on her. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?" he asked reprovingly as Rachel merely looked upon him, somehow knowingly.
"You can act like you're leaving for my sake," Ray stated calmly, "but we both know," peering away, her empty expression grew somehow somber, "it's really because," like everyone else, "you're tired of dealing with me." She looked back up to him. "You're not doing this because you care," her voice wavered. "You're doing it because you don't."
Zack stared at her, embittered and untoward. "That's what you think?"
"That's what I know."
He almost couldn't believe it, but at the same time, he wasn't surprised at all. "Just when I thought you couldn't get any fuckin' stupider," said the self-proclaimed idiot beneath his breath. "How do you still not get it?" he asked, Ray canted her neck slightly, as if confused, only furthering his point. "Can you step outta your little screwed up head for like, five minutes? You're not the center of the fuckin' universe!" (A bold accusation from the man who's entire world revolved around her, he knew.) "Nothing I do will ever be enough for you, will it!"
"You've always been enough for me," she said without hesitation.
"Clearly not!" he laughed humorously. "Hell, let's fuckin'," he gestured with an open hand, "look back on the last twenty-four hours, huh! I told you I was leaving, so you nearly forced me to have sex with you, then drugged me in my sleep when I didn't, all so you could run off and nearly get killed by my fuckin' mom and the bastard who lit me on fire!" She opened her mouth to explain herself, but he cut her off before she could speak. "All your bullshit talk about being 'partners', but you've turned your back on me at every fuckin' turn, Ray!" he told her, to which the shadow of hurt showed upon her expression.
"Everything I did is because we're partners," she said intently, as if he was the one who didn't understand.
"No, you did it because you're a little fuckin' brat that throws a fit when I don't give you what you want," he corrected her without an ounce of hesitation, "and this time, you're gonna have to get the fuck over it. You can cry and whine all you want," he told her, "but I'm not going to change my mind." Turning the direction of the door, before he so much as took a step, he felt something small and centered pressed against the middle of his back.
The sound of Ray's gun cocking followed.
"We're not done talking about this," she disregarded him blatantly, and as he turned back towards her slowly, Gardner shifted to point the gun at his face.
"You are on thin fuckin' ice right now," he warned, but no sense of fear nor reluctance showed despite the fact, her resolve unwavering.
"You can try to run away from me, Zack," she told him, her monotone voice almost taunting somehow, "but that just means I'll be the one chasing you this time." She wasn't about to stay locked in another room for eternity, waiting for him to show up at her window sill and take her hand. "The only thing you can do to stop me is to end my life," Ray said, and Zack was brought to a full stop as she finally peered up to him with a heavy lidded, dark expression. In no uncertain terms, for maybe the first and only time in her life, she glared at him. "Either way, I'm going to get what I want."
For a long, heavy moment, Zack stared down the barrel of her handgun in nothing less than disbelief. He was tired of this—tired of doing everything in his power for Ray, just for her to disregard his intentions. He was giving her an out to live a better life, but she was acting like a petulant child who'd been put in a timeout. She was the only thing he thought about from the day he'd met her, the only thing that mattered to him more than the need to kill, and it hurt.
It hurt, because it felt like he didn't matter to her at all.
Fine, then.
Like always, he'd give her exactly what she wanted.
He moved on instinct, fight or flight sense kicking in. Knocking the gun out of her hands like it were little more than a toy, he hissed aggressively through sharply grit teeth. Like a cobra striking its prey, his larger hand jutted forward, tightly gripping Ray by the neck. "This is how it has to be, then?!" he yelled, and Ray gasped, be it in shock or pain or lack of air. Her throat was small and thin, his entire hand almost wrapped around it in full, crushing her windpipe like if it were nothing at all. "You're gonna make me do this?!"
"I-I'm not making you do anything!" Ray winced. "You just can't control what I do!" As if to prove her wrong, his grip flexed tighter, and she let out a weak cry, having the gall to seem surprised. Ray struggled back and forth, but he restrained her, no contest. "No one's—allowed… to get in my way!" she shouted, weakly trying to pull his hands off her throat with little success. "Not even you!"
"Wanna bet, Kid!" Forcibly, he dragged her a little closer to make sure she was looking him in the eye, though her narrow lashes struggled to stay parted. "For fuck sake, why can't you just listen to me for once in your damn lif—!"
"Because I know you're lying to me!"
In her collapsing throat, Ray's vindictive words drowned him out as she dare say just about the worst thing she could have in that moment. Her bold denunciation only proved to solidify his anger. "How fucking dare you?" he bit out as he jostled her slightly, but despite his counter, Ray was all the more certain she was right. She could almost see him cracking.
"You hate liars, don't you?" Rachel croaked, to which he growled in acrimony. "Then, t-tell me why," she demanded, "tell me, Zack… the real reason—you're leaving me! It's because," Ray gasped, "because you hate me!"
Zack's grip flexed with killer instinct by such a blatantly incorrect accusation, cutting off her airflow completely, though he hardly noticed her struggle as his ears rang loud, vision blurring red. Were she able to catch it at all, Ray's fleeting breath hitched suddenly, crushed in her throat by his palm and the darkest confession of his horrifically impure heart.
"It's because I love you, Rachel!"
He loved her.
He loved her like he'd never loved anything, thought he could love anything—no, she was the only thing he loved. Someone like him, who certifiably shouldn't have even been capable of love—loved this girl so much that it hurt, so much that he couldn't take it anymore. He loved her now, forever, until his last, dying breath, the one that couldn't seem to come soon enough. He loved Rachel Gardner, more than she could ever possibly know…
And he hoped she hated the sight of him.
"Z—," she whimpered, her petite voice chipping at his rage, "Za—"
He suddenly noticed as Rachel's cheeks had shifted towards a deeper shade, though it wasn't just because she couldn't breathe. Her shaking fingertips rose once more, towards his face again, barely making contact with his cheek, the same place she'd caressed after she'd passed out in his arms from blood loss. As small and delicate as her touch was, it grounded Zack enough to finally recognize what he was actually doing.
He was, quite literally, choking the life out of her.
Abruptly, his grip released.
The only force holding her relented equally, and she crumbled to the floor, gasping for air, hand raising to caress her aching throat. Rachel coughed weakly, trying to reclaim her breath, panting heavily for a long few moments. Zack stared down at the husk of a girl, as if confused about what had could have happened to bring her to such a seemingly helpless state, and then he remembered…
Him.
He was what happened to her.
Grounded morbidly by what he'd almost done, and more-so what he'd said, Zack fell back to sit on the bed, unable to say anything or look away. When Ray finally spoke, her voice little more than a raspy whisper.
"You love me, Zack?"
Fashioning an almost pained look, like this were the worst crime he'd ever been guilty of, he held his breath and said nothing. With her hair falling in her face, pooling out around her and onto the floor, Ray's blank expression hardened as she finally peered up to look at him. She clenched her little fist, slamming it on the floor. "Answer me!" she demanded, and hunching forward, covering his eyes slightly, he stared at the floor through the gap in his fingers, broken and distantly, unable to look at her now despite so confidently choking her out not moments before. In that instance, inside, Zack felt nothing and everything, because this girl made him so very whole, but completely broken.
Without a word of protest, remorsefully, he gave a lone nod.
"But I sure as hell don't fuckin' like you," he swore.
Regardless of his biting addendum, for maybe the first time in her life, it felt as if the permeating clouds over Rachel's heart parted clear. If he really thought she'd let him leave now, after saying something like that? He really was as stupid as he'd always claimed.
In a life built on false "I love you"s, Ray wasn't about to let the only one she believed in get away.
No. He had to suffer the consequences.
"Everyone else in my entire life—everyone who ever 'loved' me, Zack, tried to kill me, died, then left me to fight alone. Everyone," she said, "except for you." The tone of her voice was practically foreign in its emotional intensity, so much so that it caught him off-guard. "So don't you dare sit there and try to tell me I'd be better off without you, because you already know," Ray reached out, weakly gripping the hem of his jean leg, "it'd just kill me once and for all."
"…I—"
"Don't lie to me," Ray cut him short, sensing his hesitation. "If you really love me, Zack, you'll tell me the real reason you don't want to be with me anymore," she demanded, however weakly, but it was a demand nonetheless, to which he couldn't deny it any longer, the cause for which he wanted so much to leave her.
"I just want you," Zack choked out, "to smile for real."
His voice wavered in the way it rarely did. In fact, the last time she'd heard him like this was on B3, when he held her head pressed to his chest, confessing his inability to hold back from his killer instinct. Her visage warped with rare concern, recognizing the appearance of his equally barren and hopeless expression, because—like everything else in his entire life, if not most of all, he was starting to realize that caring for another person was meant to go hand-in-hand with heartache.
"And that'll never happen… as long as we're together."
It hurt like hell. It destroyed him from the inside out. It tore him apart, and for the first time, he wished things were different. He wished he was different. He couldn't be the one to make her better, simply by virtue of being who he was, and he could beg and demand for her to smile all he wanted, simultaneously knowing it'd never truly come, and because of that, he really was a liar. Without a true smile, there's no way he'd ever be able to uphold his end of the bargain.
He couldn't kill her.
"Zack…"
He remained unmoving as he sat hunched at the bed's edge, and shakily, Ray rose to her feet in front of him. Standing tall once more, she reached out with open arms, taking him in a gentle embrace, holding his face in her chest with her fingertips carded in the back of his hair. Despite the fact that she was still clearly alive, Zack was somehow surprised to discern the beat of her heart as she held his head against her.
"The only time I've ever truly been happy," Rachel whispered in his ear, "is when I was with you."
He felt his chest growing tighter in agony, half-stunned in disbelief, unsure he'd heard her right, or fearing he did, because it certainly must've been a lie. A breath passed, and shaking, he, too, reached up with his dominant hand, grabbing the back of her short nightgown and holding her tight, hypocritically terrified that she might otherwise fade away.
"Then, why?" he asked desperately, voice wavering and muffled against the fabric of her dress. "Why are your eyes still so dead?"
If you're happy, Ray, then why do you only ever "smile" after you've been crying and screaming and fighting for your life? If you're so happy, what is it that you go searching for at the end of a needle, the tip of a bottle, or when you kiss me? Why, Ray, if you're so happy, are you just like me, and you can only feel something when you take away the happiness of others?
"Ray," he told her, "you don't know what real happiness is."
Softly, he could feel Rachel shake her head. "You're wrong," she replied quietly, however certain. "Even if I can't smile," even if he couldn't magically stop her suffering, "you've given me what no one else ever has," and at this point, never could. Despite the reassurance, Zack only felt his heart sink resentfully.
"What could I possibly have ever given you besides a cracked knife and a world'a troubles?" he asked, and Ray exhaled softly, stroking her fingertips down the back of his head to comfort him before she replied.
"A reason to keep going when everything else hurts, knowing that, in the end, you're going to be the one to take all the pain away, and," in comparison, all the suffering in the world meant nothing, "that means more to me than you could ever know." Ray shifted, pressing her lips to the top of his head, in his hair. Isaac knew himself atrociously undeserving of a kiss so heavenly, and yet, he all but melted into her hold. His eyes slammed shut as she cradled him tenderly, and he wrapped both arms around her in a contrarily vice embrace.
"Ray…"
She acted like he'd provided some profound solution to her troubles, yet she was the only person in the entire world who accepted him exactly as he was, valued him for the one thing he knew how to do, wanted him as he was, horrifically.
All he could do was kill, and, somehow, she cherished him for it.
With their arms still draped around one another, Ray pulled away with her head lowered a touch to meet his gaze, the look in his eye more human than it had ever been, even before it'd been permanently scarred. Rachel's petite fingertips shifted, never pulling away, merely positioning themselves upon Zack's cheeks as she caressed him fondly.
"Don't ever forget…"
Her hands maneuvered to the back of his head once more, this time, not stopping to entangle in his hair as she reached for the end of his bandages. His gaze drew heavy and thin, racing heart flatlining as he knew what came next should he not stop her, and as he said nothing, a silent permission was granted loud and clear.
Ray tepidly undid the knot.
"I'm still breathing…"
Unraveling the few bandages, even in the dim light, she slowly began to discern the truest nature of his flesh. She undid another layer, and another, and eventually, his face was almost fully revealed, only a few wraps remaining as they fell loosely from his neck. Dropping them to the floor, Ray's euphoric touch returned to Zack's face again, his true face, cupping his cheeks as she looked him deep in the eye.
Despite its original pale shade, in large patches, his skin was dark brownish and discolored. While not spared by any means, the area around his lips and eyes seemed to fair a bit better in how they'd healed and faded over time, the majority of his scarring residing on his cheeks. At places Ray could only assume were once particularly painful, risen, whitish lines showed, some more prominent than others.
While he'd said it didn't hurt anymore, Ray knew there would always be part of it that did, there would always be part of him that needed the cover of plasters and bandages to conceal the phantom ache—but no matter how he felt, no matter how scarred or warped his body was, to her, there was never a more beautiful person in the entire world.
"For you."
With nothing to come between them anymore, Rachel pressed her scarred lips to his pure.
"Why, Ray?" he choked out against her.
Didn't she understand?
In a life where she could've had anything, literally the exact opposite of him who was long trapped in their current circumstances, she still chose this—the worst possible path to walk, the one that led straight to him. Zack couldn't go back if he wanted, and while he certainly didn't, he'd never be able to understand why she actively, repeatedly, definitively chose him. Be it this lifetime or some other he couldn't bring himself to believe in, she was the only thing that ever really mattered to him, his everything—but he just couldn't believe he would ever, ever be the same to her.
"Why can't you just let me go?"
Rachel pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, cupping his marred cheeks tenderly, brushing beneath her fingertips a scarred, warped patch of skin at the corner or his lip. "Because, Isaac Foster," she whispered, her tone so certain and gentle, it was nothing less than chilling. While there were many things in life that Ray knew someone like her could never hope to comprehend, the answer to his question was clear as day.
He almost didn't register as Ray climbed into his lap, gently pushing him to lay back on the bed as she hovered over him. While he welcomed her without a second thought, his hands finding her waist naturally, now more than ever, he didn't understand this deranged girl, who very rightfully should've been horrified at the very sight of him.
Gazing upon the man beneath her, Ray was suddenly reminded of her conversation with Eve, where she first entertained the idea of their love, something Zack seemed to have also considered, but despite her conclusion and his equal, there was a matter much more pressing to the situation, something that dictated all else in their very complicated relationship beyond pure affection. Something he didn't seem to realize.
"You're mine."
Whether he liked it or not, whether she let him live or shot him dead on her floor, whether she let him bleed out or stuck her needle in him for the millionth time, he realized deep at his core—she was right.
He was hers, and her's alone.
Still hovering over him, her long tresses fell to frame his face, her heavy-lidded, dark, desolate, ever-emptied gaze boring into Zack's contrarily very human soul—eyes set only on him for now and forever. As if to prove her point, without the slightest ounce of true joy, his beloved did the one thing she knew he couldn't resist.
Beautiful and lifeless as a porcelain doll, Rachel smiled.
Falling right into yet another one of her traps, just like she planned, that was all it took for Zack to give in, and recognizing as much, as if satisfied, her curved lips trailed elegantly along his charred flesh as she shifted to whisper to him, her hot breath brushing against his ear, her voice sincere and wanting. "Tell me again," she begged, even if it was just one more time. "Tell me you love me," Ray yearned, and despite his exposed skin, Zack felt like he was suffocating now more than ever.
"I," he confessed helplessly, "I do."
Slowly lowering her head once more, she kissed him again with an unmistakable desire and passion, her mouth moving against his with a languid gentleness that caused a foreign heat to rise in the center of Zack's chest—a vastly different feeling than the times they'd done anything remotely like this before. From his lungs, a deep exhale followed as she parted from him, as if, somehow, this kiss were more breathtaking than any other.
"Then stay with me," she required sweetly, softly, her little hands cupping his jaw. "Be with me," she pressed against him nearer, and despite her apparent intentions, he almost couldn't comprehend it until she'd made it crystal clear.
So very like he'd once asked of her: "Zack," Rachel begged, "desire me."
She needn't coerce him, for the only thing that outweighed his insatiable need for blood was the burning lust he withheld for her.
Almost against his will, Zack pulled her closer again, his mouth finding hers however briefly, seemingly almost by accident, though they quickly met again, and again, more fervently and confident with each chance, his darkest impulses overpowering him now more than ever. Ray took his hand in hers, leading him to place his palm on her chest, over her heart, as if to reiterate "I'm still here". Now essentially feeling her up over her ill-fitted nightgown, anything left in the world that dare separate them was little more than a flimsy obstacle to be destroyed, like that damn brick wall the day he swore to God he'd kill her.
Sitting up as she remained in his lap, he frantically unraveled the wraps on his hand as he gripped the hem of her dress, tearing it upwards, and agreeably, Ray lifted her arms as he pulled it over her head, tossing it to the floor. Of course, she'd not been wearing anything on her chest underneath, but given how flat she was, it's not like she ever really needed to in the first place. Subtly, her fingertips carded beneath the bandages on his chest, and Zack, recognizing her intentions, full-on gripped a handful, haphazardly tearing them from his person to be forgotten equally.
As they were left skin-to-skin, he all but lost his breath as her comparatively flawless flesh was pressed against his bare chest—her still heart beating against his. His lips ghosted along the length of her neck, to the hollow of her soft cheek, landing on the corner of her mouth—appraising every part of her, this girl, the only thing in the world better than killing. Zack drew her into another lustful, burning kiss, and feeling her even more intimately than ever, he was forcibly reminded by her immature shape of just how young she was, and now more than ever, he couldn't wait for her to grow up.
Literally, morbidly, sickeningly.
He was done waiting.