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Caroline feels gutted. Like someone plunged into the softness of her belly and scooped whatever was inside out. Seeing her parent's grave left behind a feeling she can't run from; it's less like the gilded touch of awaking after death and more like the deep wounds she left behind in the Green-Eyed Man's chest.
On the day of the mission, the sun rises as though fearful of illuminating a bloodbath. Over the span of a week, Caroline had gone back and forth between past and present; from her Manhattan townhouse to the Manor in Queens. A pair of her sister's clothes is stashed away in her bag, along with a knife and a wad of cash siphoned from her foster dad's wallet.
The manor is silent. But the tension is loud enough.
"Why are we doing this?" Crybaby's eyes beadily watch Lilac, who adorns a brunette wig over her purple hair. For a moment, no one answers. Caroline hands over her sister's clothes to Lilac and watches the younger girl disappear up the stairs to change.
"Because we have to," Sasha reaffirms. Her machete weaves in-between her lithe fingers before she tosses it up and catches it, the same deadpan expression on her face. The act is a little sadistic, if not, unnerving to Caroline. It's as though Sasha gets a sick pleasure out of the possibility of bloodshed.
"But we don't have to. There are other options," whispers Crybaby. "We don't have to sacrifice an innocent—,"
"We're sacrificing nobody, you hear me? You decided to pursue your killers; we're doing this for you Ginger."
Crybaby draws back as though Sasha swiped at her with the bat.
"Why would you call me that? Don't you ever call me that, you hear me? Don't you ever." Standing, Crybaby collects her bow and arrows, and shoulder checks Sasha on the way out. The front door slams shut behind her.
Caroline hesitates before following her, her body wound so tightly that her limbs almost refuse to move upon command. She gets one, two, three steps toward Crybaby before the latter rounds on her, bow instinctively loaded and aimed at Caroline's chest.
Or maybe it's not instinct alone. Maybe its anguish and heartbreak working together to take Crybaby down. Maybe, as her finger twitches on the bow, she wants to send an arrow straight through Caroline's chest. Maybe. But she doesn't.
"No, I don't want to talk about it," says Crybaby as she turns back towards her van.
"You don't have to. I don't expect you to, but . . . I'm here."
"I don't care."
"That's a lie," Caroline smiles. "I know you care. It may not be about me, but you care. About Lilac. About Sasha. About Babydoll, and about yourself. You care."
Crybaby wrenches open her van door and climbs inside. The Volkswagen shivers from the ferocity of Crybaby slamming the door.
