Chapter 19: Blind Alley
There are people who must give everything they have in life to feel even just a little bit of joy. There are people who, no matter what they do, have to take from others to achieve their best. There are people who must first hurt, in order to heal.
Sometimes, feeling true happiness means you must relish in the most horrible pain and suffering of others.
Ray wrung out her blonde tresses over the edge of the dock with Zack behind her, doing the same to his coat. Just as he'd deemed himself dry enough, slipping his arm back in his sleeve, Ray slung her long hair over her shoulder, hitting him across the face with a wet slap. He let out a "p'tah", spitting and wiping away her hair stuck to his lips, resisting the impulsive urge to toss her in the water again. Ignoring his annoyance, or maybe not noticing it at all, she merely took his palm, lacing her fingers between his as she held his hand, turning back towards the cabin.
Bratty little shi—
"Hey, Zack?" Ray beckoned, tempering him, and with a sigh, he gave a disinterested "hm?" in reply. "Can I ask you something?"
They both knew she was going to no matter what he said, so he simply shrugged with a click of his tongue. "Go off," he allowed, and with her free hand, Gardner cupped her chin.
"Do you think," she spoke slowly, seemingly pensive, "there are people who actually deserve to die?"
Zack rose an eyebrow in her direction as she toted him along. "Weird time for you to start wondering about that," he muttered, and she almost didn't hear him. "Why d'ya ask?" he redirected her instead of answering. Ray looked at her feet, towards the wooden boards of the dock.
"Earlier today, Eve said that no one deserves to die," she peered up to meet Zack's mismatched gaze, "not even me." Of course, Ray didn't believe that, but she still wondered where Zack stood on the matter.
Ushering a "tch", Foster shook his head slightly. "I think she's just a little kid who doesn't understand the real world," and considering as much, it was no wonder she and Ray were friends. "If Red really knew about the shit we've done, she'd prolly think differently," said Zack, and Ray's light grip on his hand grew slack as she let him go. She stopped walking, and he did the same. For a long moment, she said nothing, and he looked back to see a confused expression on her face. Her curled palm rose, resting over her chest, seemingly apprehensive.
"You think… you deserve to die?" she asked, and placing a hand on his hip, Zack was a little annoyed she seemed so incredulous.
While that wasn't quite what he was trying to say, he gestured with an open palm, posing her regardless. "You think I don't?"
Ray hunched her shoulders. "Why would I?" she asked in sincerity, like she had no idea what he meant. "Because you're a serial killer?"
Zack let out a fake, exaggerated gasp, feigning shock. "I'm… a serial killer?!" He pressed the backside of his hand to his forehead. "Why didn't anyone tell me!" Ray narrowed her gaze, puffing out her cheeks, to which he rolled his eyes. "Why else, Ray?" he mocked her, and Ray's gaze narrowed in on him sharply, as if displeased with the fact.
Clearly, he was confused.
"That's not your fault."
Forcibly withdrawn from his biting sarcasm, Zack paused. Forever finding new ways to take him aback, Ray walked past him as he stood on the dock still, stunned. He took a few fast steps to stay at her side, gazing towards her unwavering profile. "Excuse me?"
To Ray, it was simple: "You wouldn't have been this way, but your mother, my uncle," she explained, as if it were obvious, "they hurt you," made him into what he was today, what he had no choice but to become. "They abused you." His foster parents, too.
Cut back to Zack, who blinked dully, nothing less than astonished as he huffed a humorless laugh. "You're—you're kiddin' me, right?" he asked, but judging by the ever-blank look on her face, he knew she was being horrifically serious. When she didn't reply, his hand found itself on her bicep, turning her to look him in the eye again, but she didn't falter as she gave her answer.
"If I was," Rachel replied lowly, chillingly, "you'd already be dead."
Zack didn't know what to say, his expression falling towards sternness. That was how she justified the things he did—the reason he hadn't fallen victim to her hand despite being the prime example of her M.O.? "But you think you deserve to die?" he asked pointedly, and Rachel gave a lone nod, because she wasn't at all a victim like him.
Never had she killed because she was ever in any danger; her motives were purely selfish.
Ray killed her father because she wanted to create her ideal family, same with the puppy and the other pets thereafter. She killed them, and the people who came to her floor, because she foolishly believed that killing gave her a sense of ownership. She went so far as to kill an innocent nun, a woman devoted wholly to God, and even people who justly tried to put her down, Eddie, Danny, Cathy—she was the self-centered reason every last one of them were dead. "I'm not innocent," Ray explained, because now more than ever, she'd come to fully understand what Father Gray meant when he said Zack was inherently pure, "but you are."
Zack killed, because he simply couldn't not kill.
His jaw fell slack slightly. Despite everything, Zack was somehow uncomfortable that she could say as much with a straight face. At this point, more than he was confused by her inane justification of the screwed-up circumstances surrounding her, he was simply astounded by the double standard this kid held herself up to.
"Ray," he began seriously, "that ain't—"
"Eve?"
Ignoring him completely, Ray's gaze lingered in the distance, upon a small figure that had appeared between the tangle of tall trees. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you," Zack muttered in annoyance, but Ray didn't acknowledge him, almost thinking she was seeing things again, but the longer she looked, the clearer and more familiar the image became. Undeniably, it was her friend, and while the sight itself wasn't particularly shocking, what caught her attention was something else entirely.
She was covered in blood, holding something small and unmoving in her arms.
Despite the distance between them, the two young girls locked eyes, and Ray read her lips as she mouthed something, a silent beckoning as she abruptly turned, running off into the woods. Ray needn't think twice as dashed from Zack's side, trailing fast in the direction the small figure had fled, as if merely chasing her in another game of hide-and-seek.
Danger.
"Hey!" Zack called, following after Rachel as they soon ran through the woods at breakneck speed, him fumbling to keep up with her, not in speed but swiftness. More than once he'd almost tripped and fallen, and with agitation growing, he called out. "'Ey, slo'down!" he shouted, but despite the fact, Zack lagged farther behind, getting hit in the face with a branch that Ray effortlessly dodged, taking the diverged fork in the road. "Ray!"
Ultimately, though he lost sight of her, Ray paid him no mind, her attention set only upon the blurry, fleeting figure she sought to keep up with. Abruptly, she came to a clearing, almost surprised to see her friend standing in the middle with her head lowered, gaze set upon her feet on the ground, at which a shallow stack of papers were scattered. Most notably, in her arms, she withheld the corpse of the same cat Ray tried to slaughter earlier that day, the source of the blood covering her otherwise pristine white gown.
Unmistakably, it was dead.
"Eve," Ray panted slightly, chilled at the very sight. "What… what happened?" she asked, though characteristically, Evangeline said nothing, her empty gaze unmoving about the ground. Ray approached her, feeling oddly concerned, though she wasn't at all sure why, because it took a lot these day to shake her. "What are you…?" Ray trailed off, as she, too, looked at the papers at their feet, her attention only caught as she noticed childish drawings in colorful crayon—all innocence betraying the dark messages they conveyed. Upon the many scattered sheets, gruesome illustrations of blood and death were drawn viscerally, the only seemingly living figures in the pictures being an older man with one eye showing, holding hands with a small, brown-haired girl.
Despite their juvenile nature, Ray fully recognized their meaning.
Ray's chest felt tight as she looked upwards towards Eve again, who was little more than zoned out. "Did you draw these?" Ray asked, and after a moment, almost guiltily, the younger girl nodded. "Why?"
Her answer was simple, yet somehow horribly complicated: "To remember."
The hair on the back of Ray's neck stood on end. "Remember what?" asked Rachel, and kneeling down, still holding the dead kitty, Eve shuffled through the papers before taking a few choice pages in hand. Ray examined them closer: a man sitting in a chair with a knife lodged in his chest, a girl with red hair and freckles, slumped against the wall as she bled from the side of her head, unmistakably, a dead bunny with three letters stitched in the side.
Lastly, there was a little calico cat, bleeding out in a sunflower field.
Ray was stunned, unsure if she understood, fearing she did. "What… what do you know about all of this?" she inquired reluctantly, but Eve answered confidently on the contrary, her long, brownish lashes fluttering shut.
"Everything."
Stumbling forward, Zack's ankle caught on the root of a partially aged oak tree, and he fumbled to keep his footing. As he tripped, he lost complete sight of the girl he chased, a clear path soon diverging two ways in the woods. "Ray!" Zack called, agitation clear in his voice. "Where the hell did you go!" As he ran still, he caught no sight of her, but it wouldn't be the first time she'd outrun him. He looked back and forth, growling in frustration, arbitrarily taking the left road, unbeknownst to him, the opposite of Rachel. "Ray!"
The cicadas cried loudly late in the summer evening, silencing his calls after her, as if warning him to turn around and go back the way he came.
It wouldn't be long until he'd, for once, forget all about his chase, replaced by a matter (fucking somehow,) even more stressful than Ray. His step came to a slow halt as he was met by the sight of another cabin, one far more aged and what looked to be unoccupied. It was rundown, the windows shattered, porch floorboards broken, walls overrun by vines. Even in the dark, and despite the toll of passing time, Zack suddenly realized—he recognized this place. He recognized it perfectly.
This was the orphanage where his newborn lust for blood had been nurtured, and firstly satiated.
No… no way.
It was a cabin right out of an old slasher flick, his personal horror movie. As if to prove to himself that this was real, that he hadn't contracted Ray's Delirium, he took a few slow steps up the front porch, hand landing on the doorknob and twisting. Against his better judgment, he dared to walk inside.
Like the exterior, it was just as he remembered, save for the sight of any occupants, and vacant of furniture. A large, poorly lit living room with an attached kitchen, a hall and bedrooms, a bathroom, the layout so very ingrained in his mind that it made him begin to shake. Beneath the scars and wraps sheltering him, Zack's stomach twisted and grew painfully tight, the same way it did when he was at risk of being engulfed in flames. Memories came rushing back, living nightmares of all he endured in this house—but it wasn't at all like visiting the trailer he'd been born in, or even escaping the last trek of that horrible, burning building.
Because Ray wasn't with him.
Zack didn't realize as he fell to kneel, knees weak, heart palpitating, unable to catch the breath caught in his throat. He clutched his chest, feeling dizzy, sweating uncomfortably, and just as he was about to give in, a very different voice called out to Zack—one familiar, calm, collected.
"Breathe, my friend," said Lawrence, and accompanying the verbal guidance, a light hand found itself on his shoulder. "Just breathe."
Shakily, Zack, still on his hands and knees, peered over, and despite his momentary paralysis, he forced himself to break from his rare weakness as he glared, smacking his hand away as he flipped to face him. Despite everything, currently, he couldn't help but feel on edge, even around someone harmless as this loser. "W-What the hell are you doin' here!?" Zack began frantically, unsteady, but if Larry noticed his tension, he disregarded him, about his own agenda.
"We can discuss all that in a minute," he cut him short. "Calm yourself first, the last thing you need right now is a panic attack," he said, and Zack winced slightly, confused, offended.
Panic attack?
On a normal day, while he'd sooner die than take this guy's advice, he didn't have a choice at the moment. Tightly clutching his chest beneath his trembling grip, he slammed shut his eyes, but no matter what he tried to do, his racing thoughts couldn't stop. He took a few deep breaths, remembering the last time he felt this way, any time he felt this way, and the only thing that ever managed to quell his anxiety. He channeled all his energy into the thoughts of her—her confidence, her touch, her words, her comfort. His fucked up, dearly beloved disaster.
"It's okay. We'll get out together."
His beating pulse slowed haphazardly, not all at once, not easily—but sure in the end. His lashes parted, gaze focusing in clearer than before. His gaze met Lawrence's, who gave him a steady nod. "There now," he smiled, helping him to his feet. "That's better." With a groan, Zack heaved a deep breath, wiping his drenched brow. "What say we step outside, and get some fresh air, hm?" he asked. With senses still jumbled, Zack merely followed Larry's lead out the back door, and while it was meant to help, it did little to steady Zack in the end, as it turned out that leaving was somehow worse than staying.
Foster stood with his fists clenched and head lowered, now gazing down at a scattered line of unmarked, makeshift graves—ones crafted resentfully, frantically, thereabouts twenty years ago, by his very hand. He merely shook his head lightly with a look of anguish, peering over to the man at his side. "What," Zack posed him again, "are you doing here?" Yet another "coincidence" he didn't like, and Larry's answer would make him like it even less.
"Would you believe me," Larry began slowly, cryptically, "if I said I wanted to meet with you here?"
Zack sneered, stepping away slightly, as if to signify he didn't at all feel the same, but completely the opposite. "Why?"
Larry's answer was simple, yet somehow horribly complicated: "Let's just say, I know that you and this place share a checkered past."
Almost appalled he had the spine to claim as much, an incredulous expression showed upon Zack's features towards the notion. "The fuck you think you know about this place?" he asked brashly, but Larry hardly minded his aggression. His only reaction was but a sly, sly smile, and Zack hated it.
"You felt it too, did you not?" he said quietly, beyond Zack's understanding. "From the moment we met—the connection between us."
Scowling, Zack clenched his fists, blood beginning to boil for multiple reasons, because he really was not in the mood for this dude's shit right now. "How many times do I hafta tell you, dammit!" he bit out. "I ain't in'ta guys, I'm just a fuckin' pedoph—!"
"That's not what I meant," Larry calmly rose a hand to cut him off preemptively. "I mean what we have in common."
Foster's brow knit together indignantly. There he went again, insisting there had to be some kind of personal relation between them—between himself, the prolific serial killer, and this run-of-the-mill, asshole baker-slash-single dad. "And what could that possibly be?"
"This place," he reiterated, catching Zack off-guard, confusing him further. "This orphanage, where a young boy was neglected and mistreated by the old couple who used to live here—a boy who was beaten if he didn't listen to what he was told, who had to scrounge through the trash just to find scraps of food to survive. That young boy was also cruelly made to bury the dead bodies of his fellow orphaned children in the backyard."
Zack's breath hitched, but as shocked as he may have been at the revelation of Larry's keenness, his cryptic nature was pissing him off now more than ever. "And how the hell do you know that?" he hissed through grit teeth.
"Because that young boy," Larry finally said, calm and confidently, "was me."
Zack's jaw fell slightly agape, asymmetric gaze growing wide with stun, every word taking him more off-guard. "Wh… what?" he fumbled in confusion.
"It was me," he repeated simply, stuffing his hands in his pockets, taking a few slow steps to walk a half-circle in front of Zack, who only glared cautiously, "and you. For a brief moment, both of us at the same time."
"You," Zack's voice was a low hush, "you're saying… you were a kid at this orphanage, too?"
"Indeed. Before I was adopted, my birth parents left me at this place nearly two decades ago, thereabouts the same time as you," Larry clarified finally, "though I don't blame you for forgetting. You were younger than me, and, hell—I would forget too, if I could." He expelled a humorless laugh, gazing down as he kicked the rocks at their feet. "With what those people did to us, it's no wonder you became what you are." As Larry went on, far too casually, Zack was skeptical, but at the same time…
Not entirely.
His memories of those days were blocked out, fuzzy, though he could remember the presence of other children, ones just as miserable as he, specific faces and names were lost on him, if he'd ever known them that well at all. He was never good at remembering people in the first place, but particularly—that time in his life was when he really started separating himself from others. After all those bad things started happening, he started realizing he was better off alone. To this day, he still wondered if that was the case, because it seemed like every interaction he'd ever had just served to prove his distrust.
Case in point, this very moment.
Between this and the bomb he'd dropped the other day, Larry here was on strike number two, and anyone who knew Zack was well aware what happened at the count of three. "Why didn't you just tell me all this from the start?" he asked defensively.
"I'd have perhaps thought you wouldn't believe me," he shrugged harmlessly. "I wouldn't have wanted you to react negatively, of course."
A low, displeased sound reverberated in his chest towards Larry's cockiness. "What, so you thought making me relive all the shit I went through would help your case?" 'Cause damn if he wasn't about to slit his throat.
"On the contrary," Larry stated, "I thought coming here together might help alleviate some of your trauma."
Sneering, Zack scoffed. "How d'ya figure?" he demanded, to which Larry didn't hesitate before reaching in his pocket, pulling out his lighter, and Zack fully expected a cigarette would follow. To his surprise, however, Larry merely ignited the flame.
Wait, thought Zack.
In that moment, though Foster easily took his meaning, he merely stared the flame down as if it were threatening to light him up by the mere sight. Larry, then holding the lighter out at arms length as if for the other man to take, was confused as the otherwise fearless man flinched slightly, and he peered back quizzically. "Do you not wish to bring an end to this place, once and for all?" he asked.
Despite his distance from the fire, a drop of sweat slid anxiously down the back of his bandaged neck. "Fuckin'… 'course I do," Zack clarified, holding up his shaking, bandaged hands, "but I," he gazed upon the small flame fearfully, then to his palms, "I can't," he said vaguely, though as Larry observed the look in his mismatched gaze, he began to understand.
"I see," he replied simply, "then I suppose the least I can do is offer what little help I may be, should you ever find yourself struggling." Turning towards the shoddy building once more, without bravado, Lawrence tossed forward the lighter, and it landed at the cabin's base, the dry brush, where the fire quickly began to spread. Larry merely gazed upon the flames, unwavering, like it were just another matter of business and not literal arson. More than he found himself focused on the fire, Zack only stared towards the nonchalant man at his side.
Now more than ever, he couldn't help but question just what the hell is up with this freak.
Alright, fine. Maybe he was a kid here, but, "You were one of the lucky ones," Zack muttered lowly, bitterly, not jealous but not happy for him either. "Someone actually wanted you," however conditionally, "and you were able to move on from this fuckin' hell hole," whereas part of Zack had long since died in this house. "Why did you even care t'come back?"
Larry thought the reason would've been obvious.
"For you, Zack."
Zack felt his shoulders growing more tense, Larry's gentle tone made him almost more uncomfortable than the raising flames. "Don't say weird shit like that," Zack peered away, into the dark forest.
"But I mean it," he assured him easily. "Imagine my surprise," Larry went on slowly, a sort of wonder clear in his tone, "all these years later, after my parents' lives were taken, and mine saved—the man responsible was also the boy I shared a bunk with. I knew the second I saw you in that alleyway who you were, and I don't just mean for your infamous legacy, nor the orphanage we shared."
Zack's gaze narrowed in on him. "The fuck do you mean, then?"
"Zack, you and I?" As if on cue, the flames that'd begun to engulf the dried, wooden house burned bright, illuminating his visage in an almost ethereal light. "We're brothers."
Catching Zack completely off guard, Larry dared to broach the distance between them as he reached out, putting both his hands on the other man's shoulders. The look on Zack's face warped with clear confusion, if not shock, like he couldn't comprehend the simple notion. "Wh… what the hell?" he said breathlessly, and Larry seemed nothing if not endeared that he was so baffled.
"Perhaps not by blood, but we were foster siblings for a short time," no pun intended, "under the care of those horrible people," he explained, removing his hands from Zack's person. "After everything we've been through together, you might even say we're closer than most blood siblings, yes?"
Stunned, hardly processing the idea, Zack stared at the unmarked graves, as if their dead brothers and sister who lay inside might have some greater insight towards the fact. He exhaled before peering back up towards the other man's skewed visage, who peered back far too gently, kindly, as if he were merely looking at an equal, and not a cold-blooded killer. "Me an' you," Zack muttered, still in disbelief, slowly processing the matter by the very word, "we're… brothers?"
While he knew he shouldn't have been anything less than offended, Zack was little more than at ease, but for the life of him, he couldn't fathom why.
I… have a brother?
Larry gave another lone nod to reassure him. "I don't care what you've done, what you plan to do," he followed, lowering his head a touch, his visible eye shining bright with something eager. "I don't care if you're a killer, or if you're in love with a child," the worst offenses a man could commit. "You never have to be anything less with me than what you truly are," his voice was so keenly intimate, it was almost a whisper. "I want you to be yourself. Your realest, truest, genuine self," he said with morbid sincerity, "my dear brother."
Larry reached out, wrapping his hand over Zack shoulder as they both turned from the burning hell that was their shared past, walking back towards the forest, neither daring to look back. For a long moment, drowning in the settle belief, just like Ray in the water, Zack felt something strange in the pit of his chest. Relief.
"My," Isaac exhaled, "brother."
Someone just like him.
Horrifically, much more than he realized.
An adolescent child with dark eyes and wavy hair, thin and tall for his age, no older than twelve, looked upon another little boy equally as weak and tired and resentful as he. The elder had finished his chores and heinous tasks faster that day, and was granted the less-than modest dinner of a half-loaf of stale bread. The younger boy, the one wrapped head to waist in bandages, was left to starve or scrounge in the trash should he hope to survive another evening.
He'd tried speaking to him before, but the other child never spoke back. He'd growl in warning, glare, maybe swear at him if he was particularly agitated that day, but never was there a friendly interaction to be found. Despite the fact, the older boy was almost jealous.
Like all the other children, he did as told to survive, but he was jealous that the other kid had the gusto to rebel at all.
While he knew there was no use offering, after taking a bite or two out of the bread, the older boy conveniently left the stale loaf sitting on the table while he'd went to the restroom. He wasn't dumb to what may happen if he walked away, nor did he make note of the fact as he returned to find the bread gone.
Make no mistake. It wasn't a gesture left out of sympathy, but rather, it was done out of gratitude. A sort of gratitude that'd last for the next twenty-something years, for that little boy gave him the motivation to keep going when things were hard, when things were all but impossible.
Save for one little girl, there would never be another person he'd admire, like he so admired this little boy.
After that, Zack had explained to Lawrence how he'd been out looking for Ray in the first place, and the two spent some time searching the woods with no success. After a half-hour with little to show, assuming the girls had gone back to the cabin, the two men decided to return as well. After everything wild that'd happened this evening, Zack yearned for the sight of Ray's dull, boring expression, thinking it'd be nothing less than welcoming in its comfort.
However unfortunately for him, upon entering Lawrence's quaint cabin once again, the sight that "welcomed" them was not as "welcoming" as he hoped.
"...What the hell?!"
To his shock, as if this already horrible day couldn't get any worse, on the same table they'd all had dinner together earlier, Ray lay resting on her back, clearly unconscious with her long blonde lashes fallen shut—not another soul in sight.
"Ray!" called Zack, quickly alerted as he recognized her state. Despite her seemingly "peaceful" slumber, something about her sleeping expression looked so very restless; she wasn't asleep on her own will, he easily knew. He put his larger hand on her thin shoulder, jostling her with a light shake. "Ray!" he called again, but still, she didn't move.
Something about her unconscious posture reminded him of the day they'd met, when Danny had pinned her to his operating table, bound at her wrists and ankles. Back then, it excited him to see her so helpless, but now, it only riddled him with a terrible discomfort. "Relax, she's just unconscious," Larry reassured him, but Zack grit his teeth, not at all comforted by the fact, and rather the opposite. Truthfully, he was kinda pissed this fucker acted so calm, knowing full-well he wouldn't be so nonchalant if it was his girl layin' on the table. "It'll take more than this to put Ms. Rachel down."
...Put her down?
Suddenly, Zack realize just how much he didn't like anything about this.
Actually, come to fuckin' think of it—why was Ray unconscious in his cabin, having run after his daughter, tonight of all nights? Zack hated towing the line of uncertainty, but like everything else, he only felt all the more suspicious. "What?" he asked pointedly, gesturing towards Ray. "You know somethin' about this?"
Innocently, Larry merely shrugged. "I'm not sure, but I will say I cautioned Eve since our conversation earlier. You know, the one where you made the point to tell me about Ms. Rachel's… nature," he lowered his head, never looking away with a sharp expression. "I may have prepared her, should the worst happen," he explained, as if it weren't a big deal. "I mean, would you blame her? Weren't you the one who said my daughter may be in danger?" he asked reasonably, and with his own actions used against him, rightfully so, even if Zack wanted to deny him (which he did,) he knew it'd be hypocritical.
Had Ray... actually done something to his kid?
Gently, Larry reached forward, placing his middle and pointer fingers to the side of Rachel's thin neck, quite like he'd done the other night. "Regardless, she's stable, so you needn't worry," Larry stated, and Zack exhaled an inaudible a sigh of relief, one quickly withdrawn as the other man went on. "For now, that is," he said, and quizzically, Zack looked over, raising a bandaged brow towards his addendum, only more surprised as he recognized something sharp and unexpected in Larry's grip as he held up his arm, a knife—but not just any knife.
Zack's childhood knife.
"Where did you get that?" Zack asked pointedly, pupils shrinking almost completely as he was on the offensive now, though his intimidation didn't seem to do much toward the self-proclaimed coward that was Lawrence.
"It was in Ms. Rachel's bag," he replied simply, gesturing with the point, though Zack's honest question "why do you have it?" went conveniently unanswered. "You gave it to her, did you not?" Larry seemed to know. "Though I suppose the main question in my mind is why you did," something as precious as the item that not only kept him safe, but helped fulfill his bloodlust.
A low growl resulted from Zack's patience wearing thin, wondering more and more just how much this fucker really knew about him and his life. "So she could protect herself against anyone who might try to kill her before I do."
"My," Larry said, twirling the knife swiftly between his fingers, leaning on the table slightly, "so you are planning to kill her, then?" he inquired, his tone seeming almost mocking, but Zack tempered himself, assuming he was imagining things because he was so agitated.
"That's right," Zack replied cautiously, eyeing Lawrence's oddly able hand on the weapon. "We made a promise, and," painfully, "I'll be damned if I don't keep it." Maybe even damned if he did, but he knew the choice he'd rather, the one that at least meant he wasn't a liar. Larry tapped his own chin thoughtfully with the flat end of the blade.
"And this 'promise' you two made," he hummed, "how important is it to you?"
Zack failed to see how that was any of his damn business. "Why d'you care?" he countered, and Larry stopped fiddling with the knife, his arm falling to his side as he held it yet, non-dominant hand still resting in his pocket.
"What if I told you I could promise you something even more life-changing than your love for Ms. Rachel?" he told Zack, who was nothing but appalled by such a notion.
"That's impossible," Zack knew, because he was already morbidly aware of the fact that there was nothing more important to him than the way he felt for Ray, but Larry wasn't so convinced.
"Not even if I told you," he spoke knowingly, "that I could remove your burn scars?"
Huh?
Zack's expression lit with stun, his asymmetric gaze turning wide. "There's… there's no way," he muttered lowly, almost feeling as though he were being made fun of. "You're fuckin' lying to me again, aren't you!"
Larry shook his head. "On the contrary, while I may not have been entirely forthcoming about everything thus far, I assure you I'm being completely genuine now." Reaching in his pocket, he took out his cell, opening up a set of images, all side by side. He held it up for Zack to observe; normal people next to those covered in various injuries and scars, what appeared to be before and after pictures. "While it's by no means inexpensive, laser scar removal is an option for burn victims such as yourself—and, for my dear brother, I'd be more than willing to fund your surgery."
"You're… kidding," he replied in clear disbelief.
"Oh," he reassured him, "I'm quite serious."
Quickly moving on from the shock, Zack scowled in acrimony, knowing full-well it wouldn't be so fuckin' easy. The last doctor he knew, he left for dead at the bottom of a burning building. "The fuck makes you think there's anyone on the damn planet who'd be willing to operate on a wanted murderer?" he muttered.
Larry gestured casually, unconcerned. "Let's just say, I have connections—some of whom may operate under morally gray areas such as yourself. In fact, I've already made all the necessary preparations, and it could be done as early as tomorrow," he explained, and visibly, Zack stiffened, feeling his shoulders and chest grow tight as Larry stood tall and confident before him. "Think about it—without your scars and bandages, you'll look like a completely different person," Larry snapped his fingers. "Throw in a new name," a change of identity, "and you could reacclimatize into society. Not a single soul would recognize you. You could come stay with Eve and I, and we can live our lives as the brothers we were meant to be."
Zack scoffed, practically insulted. "And what makes you think that's even what I want?" he asked bitterly, but Larry wasn't deterred, only sweetening the deal to fit his like.
"Because you could still kill, and easily get away with it. No one would suspect you," Larry told him slyly, and letting out a humorless laugh, like every other opportunity presented to Zack in life, it sounded too good to be true, but, fine—he'd play along.
"The catch, then?" Zack asked, to which Larry's common smile warped somehow deviously, in a way that it never had, but almost seemed natural. Once more holding up Zack's knife, swiftly flipping it to brace it by the flat edge of the blade, he held the handle out towards the other man. When he spoke, his tone was diabolically complicated on the contrary.
"You need only kill Ms. Rachel."
Instantaneously, Zack reeled back, fiercely incredulous towards such an absurd and seemingly benign condition. "Are you outta your fuckin' mind?!" he bellowed brashly, and after a moment, Larry rose an eyebrow, ushering a sigh.
"Did you not just say you were going to kill her?" he posed him, as if it were that simple.
Okay, for as much as he may've known about his past, Zack could say now that this pompous prick had no idea what he was talking about. "Yeah, but first—!"
"Ms. Rachel must repent her sins, right," Larry cut him short quickly, seemingly impatient, but Zack was all the more annoyed that he clearly realized as much, yet brushed it off in the same breath. "Is her agenda really more important than your need to kill?" he asked, and for as much as this dude pretended to know him, he couldn't even see the obvious.
"I'm killing for her, Asshole!" said Zack with burning irritation.
"Exactly," Larry lowered his gaze, "and no longer for yourself." Though he was about to shout again, Zack's breath hitched in his throat, and recognizing the resulting look of confusion upon his bandaged visage, Lawrence didn't allow him a moment of contemplation. "You said it yourself, yes? Ms. Rachel chooses whom you slaughter based on her disarranged moral code? No longer are you killing out of passion, your own desires. It's all about her," Larry said, sounding almost bitter, disappointed. "She's made you weak, little brother," he spat, and caught off guard, dully, Zack blinked, as if only entertaining such a notion for the first time ever in his life. He was weak?
Ray… makes me weak?
"You may even say," Larry leaned a touch closer to the girl in question, softly brushing a fallen tuft of hair from her pale face, "you've become her personal tool," stated Lawrence knowingly, and in the pit of Zack's chest, something visceral ached, something he wanted to push down and never acknowledge lest he deny it, but now more than ever, he knew he couldn't.
Loving Ray meant he would be doomed to always hate a part of himself, as being with her also meant he was either a liar or a tool, and nothing in between.
"Why," Zack asked quietly, "do you want me to do this?"
As quickly as it appeared, his cunning tone dissipated back to its deceptively gentle nature. "I already told you," Larry said kindly, "I just want you to be yourself, not the person Ms. Rachel forces you to be. Not only that, I want to share in this part of your life, this personal part of what makes you, you." He reached out, taking Zack's dominant hand, placing it over his own as he gripped the knife so they held it together. "We'll do it together, as brothers."
A brother.
Someone who understood him, accepted him, wanted to help him. For however he may've felt about Rachel, Zack knew it'd be a far cry to say she went out of her way to do any of those things, her own feelings always taking precedence over his. If nothing else, almost guiltily, his frustration was somehow mitigated at the idea that someone might, for once, put him first.
"I don't care what you want."
God. Ray really had made him weak. Zack put his free hand to his now-aching head. "Does… does it have to be Ray?" asked Zack desperately, genuinely, like he really didn't know how to navigate the situation at all, feeling so very like the "little" brother he'd been deemed.
"It can't be anyone else," declared Lawrence without missing a beat. "Kill her, and you'll be free," he told him righteously, but Zack just winced, visibly pained and conflicted, because he didn't at all understand why the thought of killing, the only thing he once believed in, seemed so very wrong now.
"But, I…"
I love her.
I love her—so much that I don't understand it. I can't control it. Lying at all, I couldn't live with myself, but if I betrayed Ray and went back on our promise? Doing something like that, then going on without her, like nothing even happened… is that really a life at all? For the love of his life—his horrific, terrible, regrettable love, and his horrific, terrible, regrettable life—Zack's hand upon the blade grew slack, and he let it go. He swallowed deep, Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat, gazing back to Lawrence reluctantly.
"I can't."
Lawrence's partial view drew in upon his brother's scarred, a look of clear disappointment, though his own hand didn't lower back to his side as it should've. A sigh, one deep, dissatisfied, dark resounded, and still in the air, he rose his hand higher without warning to overlap the harsh cabin light beating down on Ray's unconscious visage, the weapon's shadow eclipsing her restless sleep. Zack felt his heart jump in realization, and lowering his hand with a swift force, Larry took aim at the center of Rachel's upper chest.
"You can't be a serial killer and a servant of God," Lawrence spoke fiercely and merciless now, "it doesn't work that way!"
With his true colors revealed and intentions made clear, that was all it took for Zack to snap back to reality, remembering where his loyalty would always truly lay.
"I don't think so, 'Bro'!"
His bandaged palm jutted forward on reflex, grabbing Larry's wrist as the blade was hardly an inch from the girl beneath them. A primal rage flooded in Zack's core, filling his whole body as he twisted Larry by the shoulder, seemingly neutralizing him. Reeling back with a clenched fist, he threw his arm forward, striking the other man across the face. Despite the force, the typically animated man showed no sense of pain.
Instead, Lawrence himself withdrew his other hand from his pocket, revealing his fist as he brandished a pair of brass knuckles.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Larry retaliated with a force Zack hadn't thought him capable of—perhaps not quite matched in strength, but clearly superior in swiftness and precision, easily outmatching the brutish Zack. Struck in the solar plexus, he sputtered as the wind was knocked out of him. Gripping his stomach, he hunched over, but before he could so much as catch his breath and regain composure, Larry uppercut him beneath the chin.
Clearly, hidden sentiments weren't the only secrets he'd been keeping close to the chest.
His keen fist and sharp accuracy bested Zack, if only because it caught him horrifically off-guard, and he toppled backwards to the floor. Despite his momentary hiccup, Zack fumbled to gather himself, shuffling slightly, but still one step ahead, Larry quickly reached in his pocket once more, pulling out an odd device that looked a little like a television remote.
He pointed it towards his dear brother, befallen on the floor.
Before Zack could take a closer look, Larry pressed the central button, firing off a thin metallic wire from the front with a little claw clamp at the end. It dug into the center of Zack's torso, and before he could process what was happening to him, a burning current jolted through the wire, straight into his being, electricity flowing painfully through his whole body, from fingers to toes and the back of his eyes. He cried out loudly, voice clipping in and out by the intermittent jolting, reminded of the otherworldly pain that was surviving the electric chair.
He was rendered incomparably weak, losing all feeling in his body, falling to his knees before collapsing face down on the floor, a little fleck of saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth as he panted in agony. He struggled to so much as turn his head, not without the strength to glare upwards at Larry standing over him, hand once again resting casually in his jean pocket as he again twirled Zack's knife. "Y-You fake-ass… motherfucker," Foster cursed, and little more than amused, Larry jutted his leg forward, kicking Zack in the face, a final blow to take him out. Groaning as his consciousness began to fade, Zack turned his hazy attention back to what was, now more than ever, made apparent as the most important thing in his life.
Seeing Ray's hand as it rested lifelessly from the side of the table, he struggled to raise his arm, trying desperately to reach out and take it with no success.
Recognizing his intentions, a smirk spread across Lawrence's face, betraying every friendly smile he'd ever shown. "I believe Ms. Rachel asked you earlier, if there are those who deserve to die," Larry said, "and if you ask me? I, like my dear daughter, firmly believe that there's no one in this world who's penultimate fate is an early grave, regardless of their past, however heinous." Barely registering what he'd said, so very against his will, Zack's vision went black, body falling limp. All that remained was the sound of Larry's voice—but recognizing what he'd say, Foster could've sworn it was his own thoughts, the very ideology he'd not been able to confess to Rachel earlier.
"And that's exactly what makes it so very satisfying to kill."
Gawking in disbelief, Rachel couldn't draw her gaze from the juvenile illustrations as she shuffled through them. "Everything?" Ray repeated, as she looked up as Eve nodded, then riddled with an unfamiliar anxiety. "Eve," she said, breathless and serious, "do you know who did these things?" Slowly, Eve hunched her shoulders, cradling the dead cat closer to her chest as she said nothing—though her reaction spoke volumes. "Please, talk to me," Ray nearly begged, though Eve shook her head still. "Why not?" she asked desperately, but getting nowhere, again, Eve only trembled, like she was afraid, scared to go on. Forgetting all about the papers before her, Ray reached out, kneeling, putting her hands on the little girl's shoulders delicately. "If you know something, you have to tell me. Zack and I, we might be in—"
"Danger."
Rachel's empty gaze turned wide, feeling as if her mind had been read by the girl who struggled daily with moderate literacy. "How did you—?" Before Ray could finish her sentiment, Eve turned her hand inwards to point to herself.
"Danger," she repeated.
A droplet of sweat ran down the back of Ray's neck. "You're… in danger?" she asked breathlessly, and much to both Ray's dismay and relief, Evangeline shook her head. Rachel, unfortunately, took her meaning. "You are the danger," she realized, the look in her reddish gaze growing distant, intense, but clear to someone like Rachel. "You're the one who did all of this," she recognized. "You killed them."
Ultimately, to Ray's suspicion and horror, Eve nodded.
The one who'd been following them, framing Zack, sending them "messages"—it was Eve? Sweet little Eve? There was no way, right? How was it even possible? How could a nine-year-old girl do such horrible, atrocious things? (Well, come to think of it, how could a thirteen-year-old, either?) "Didn't you say, no one deserves—?"
"I had to," Eve cut her short, and Ray could only put a hand to the side of her head, mind racing in disbelief.
"Wh… why?" asked Rachel dully, her weak voice breaking. Reluctantly, with tears pooling in her ducts, a long pause followed before the younger child could muster up the courage to confess the cause.
"Larry," she finally said.
While hardly a sense of shock showed upon her forever vacant expression, inwardly, Ray was taken aback horrifically. Needless to say, she couldn't believe it. She couldn't. "Mr. Lawrence?" she repeated urgently. "What do you mean?" she asked, and Eve replied simply, vaguely, voice small and desolate.
"Kill."
With every one-word reply, despite her clarification, Ray felt deeper and deeper in the dark. Her mind raced for an understanding. Mr. Lawrence… he was why she'd taken those lives? Kind, generous, giving Mr. Lawrence? "He's threatening to kill you?" she asked, and unable to answer, Eve only shook slightly, visibly, to which a cold, familiar chill ran down Rachel's spine as she realized more accurately: "He's… making you kill."
Again, Eve nodded.
She did whatever heinous demand presented to her, all in the name of that which motivated Ray equally. "Love," Eve whimpered as she broke down in tears, and listening to her little friend cry, Rachel's heart welled distantly, though not in sorrow or sympathy, but quite the opposite.
In the beat of a heart, something about the fact made Rachel feel relieved.
As quickly as she was fearful for what this may've meant for what they'd have to do next, Mr. Lawrence being behind it was a much, much better alternative. The corners of Ray's lips twitched upwards softly, deceptively, though that expression didn't reach her eyes.
Ray recalled yesterday, as Zack had told her she didn't know what real happiness was, but he'd been proven wrong yet again, because somehow, Ray couldn't be more elated about this revelation.
"I can help you, Eve," Ray reassured her, reaching out, tenderly wiping away a thick droplet raining down her cheek. "I can make all of this go away," the same way she always did. "Zack and I—we can save you. We can take care of you, and the three of us," if Eve didn't know any better, she'd have almost thought Rachel sounded excited, "we'll be a family, and Mr. Lawrence will never, ever bother you again," Ray swore, like it weren't a matter of life and death. "We'll kill hi—"
Rachel was cut short as the little girl jutted forward, pushing Ray roughly in the stomach, shaking her head profusely. "No!" she shouted, and Rachel, with the deranged darkness in her eyes swirling deeper, stumbled in confusion, wondering why Eve was so upset.
Isn't this why she came to her in the first place? So she could take care of it, like a good friend should?
"Eve," Ray spoke softly, "you're not like him, or like Zack," and perhaps most of all, "you're not even like me." She was a good person, a normal girl, an innocent child. "Let me help," Ray pleaded, but Eve covered her eyes, clearly conflicted, shaking her head in protest, muttering "no, no" beneath her small breath, and it only made Rachel more sympathetic to what she was going through. Rachel felt for her, because there was a time where she found herself on the other end of an exchange like this, but there wasn't a single person in the world who wanted to help her, who tried to help her—who could help her.
But that wasn't the case now.
With the power to prevent it, Rachel wasn't about to let another disaster like herself be born in real time, she wasn't about to let such an innocent soul suffer anymore. Friendships were complicated, she was starting to realize, but, like the little puppy she'd brought home without asking her parents, killed and sewed back together, neatly laid to rest in a box…
Ray knew Eve was worth any risk.
Ray had once heard that even if friends disagreed, even if they fought—if they were really friends, they'd eventually make up, and who knows? They could even come back as better friends than before. Maybe, this would make them even the very, very best of friends.
A best friend.
Decidedly, she shook her head, turning away, back towards the cabin. "If someone's hurting you, I won't just sit by," even if it meant a few road bumps in the only friendship she'd ever known. "Please, you have to trust me," she explained gently, though she wasn't truly giving her a choice. "I'll make all the pain go aw—"
Suddenly, ironically, critically, Rachel felt a sharp, precise point stabbed in the side of her jugular.
With eyes growing wide as her vision instantly began to blur, the older girl's voice failed in her throat as she gasped for breath. Rachel lost all feeling in her body, her knees clambering as she befell the forest floor. In the blink of an eye, she drifted deeper, hardly able to discern the pair of reddish optics staring back at her, dripping wet with tears, but the image was just clear enough that she wanted to help her even still—even as Rachel realized something small and dangerous in her hand: an emptied syringe.
"I-I'll… make the pain," Ray sputtered, and with a shaking hand, she reached out aimlessly, "go… away." As her voice and consciousness faded completely, like Zack would later do just the same that night, Ray fell to darkness. However unlike him, she'd drift off under a spell of soft sobs and the feeling of her dear friend's little arms. Eve had taken her in a tragic, sincere embrace.
"I'm sorry."
And then, the pain went away.
A four-year-old girl walked alone, searching to reach the end of the blind alley she found herself lost in.
Where did Mama and Papa go?
They've been treating me strangely since the school told them I wasn't ready to start class this year with the other kids, even though I'm the right age now. Since then, they've been fighting a lot and get mad at me easily. I wish I was different, but I still can't read and talk good enough, I guess. They took me to the museum today, the doctor said it would be "enriching", whatever that means, but I was distracted looking at all the arts and we got separated. I went outside to try and find them, but I still haven't seen them anywhere.
Do they even realize I'm gone?
As she walked and walked briskly as her little legs would take her, even in the heavy shade of the towering buildings, before long, she noticed something dark and gooey sticking beneath her feet. In a shade of red even more vibrant than her irises, a pool of blood trickled through the brick path, seeping into the cracks. Though she stopped moving, her gaze tepidly followed the horrific sight to its source.
A young man sat slumped against a dumpster at the end of the closed-off alley, hunched over, clearly injured gravely, bleeding out from the side of his torso.
While the sight should've been shocking, the little girl didn't seem fazed, only curious as best. As she took a step closer, he recognized the sound of her approach, seeing her little red shoes barely come into his skewed view. He mustered all his strength to look upwards, meeting her wide, innocent gaze. She wanted to ask if he was hurt, but like usual, she was unable. He recognized that she was at a loss. "What's wrong there, Young Lady?" he spoke in her stead, weak and breathless, though no less kind. Cute as she was, "This isn't a place for little girls like yourself, I should think."
Despite the fact, the child merely stared at him still. Slowly, her hand rose from her side, pointer fingertip extended towards his wounded, bleeding injury.
"Ah, this?" His shaking hand rose, his already bloody fingertips pressed to the red trail soaking his shirt. "I'm afraid I got in a bit of a spat, but it's been resolved, so it's not something you need worry yourself about," he said, but as she didn't seem convinced, he flipped his hair from his closed, left eye, revealing a long, jagged scar. "I've had worse, believe me." He smiled. "Be along now, yes?" he told her, and though she was young, her comprehensive understanding of the world around her still developing, she could easily tell this man was in more pain and trouble than he was letting on. She was used to adults simplifying things for her, but she didn't need to be older to know it was her responsibility to help if she could.
Kneeling in front of him, the girl reached in her pocket, pulling out a handkerchief, holding it out to him.
A look of surprise showed on his face for a moment as he took her meaning. "Well, aren't you thoughtful?" he said, a lopsided but more sincere smile showing. Slowly, the man reached out weakly, his shaking hand falling atop hers to take the offered gesture. "What's your name, darling?" While she said nothing yet, her gaze befell the handkerchief again, upon which a monogram was stitched. The man followed her gaze, reading it aloud. "Eve?" he asked. "That's your name?"
She nodded.
"What a beautiful name for a beautiful young lady," he gave a light laugh. "My name is Lawrence, but my friend's call me Larry," he explained. "Say, why don't you call me that, too?"
Taking the cloth, pressing it to the side of his torso, its beautiful white surface quickly ran red, to which the child seemed concerned still. Rummaging in her pocket, she pulled out a little travel sewing kit; thread of a few prominent colors, a set of three different-sized needles, small scissors, a thimble. Taking the black roll of thread in hand, she began threading the largest needle. Larry looked at her curiously with his lone working eye, wondering what it was she thought she was about to do.
"Now, hold on there, Eve, you—" As he reached out, she looked back without an ounce of hesitation or reluctance, her intentions and confidence clear. Gently, she removed her hands from his, and held up her needle, saying nothing. All the more intrigued as she was so intent, he allowed her nearer. "If… if you insist, then." Pushing up the hem of his shirt, the man didn't so much as flinch as the needle's tip pierced the edge of his bloodied skin, merely exhilarated by the pain on the contrary.
Messy as it was, she delved it back and forth, sealing the cut from either side like it were little more than a tear in a washcloth. More stunned than he was hurt, he gazed upon the child in wonder as she finished tending to him, merely looking at Larry with her large, innocent eyes. Reaching out, she again brushed his hair from his face, smiling now like the mended him were a sight to behold, like he didn't sport a horrific gash across his visage.
In that moment, both knew they'd just met a very important person, someone integral to their lives—someone they would never be able to be apart from.
"Thank you, Sweetheart. What a wonderful child you are," he praised her, placing a gentle hand atop her head. Finally mustering up all the strength he could find, his legs ached as he rose to stand tall. Shakily, his arm extended in her direction, his hand open for her to take. "I hope I'll have the chance to pay you back one day, but for now, why don't we go look for your parents, yes?" he asked, and happily, she gave an agreeable nod.
The moment she placed her tiny hand in his, he knew there was nothing in the entire would he'd ever love more than this beautiful, doe-eyed little girl.
This little girl, who's parents had just been brutally murdered at his hand, left to be forgotten in the dumpster he'd sat slumped against.
This little girl, who was now his.