Every night, when I closed my eyes, his image would be branded to the backs of my eyelids. That same smile, so gorgeous yet so deadly. Those deep blue eyes, like the treacherous oceans you find, the ones which sometimes have those desolate lighthous...
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Lorelei wandered around her cell in circles, wondering, planning, scheming. The clock was ticking; sooner or later, Lazarus would reach into his pocket to light his beloved cigarette, and find nothing there.
She'd need to burn this place down soon; but she needed to be sure that Lazarus was in it, first.
Because she intended to kill him.
She decided, the next time he walked in and she heard some footsteps somewhere, she'd start burning down the door. She'd escape, escape from Lazarus, and lock him somewhere. Then she'd go to the kitchen, because he'd have some kind of cooking supplies, and she'd take the oil. She'd empty it, spreading it around as many places as she could before it ran out, and if the bungalow contained a gas stove, she'd switch it on and let the gas fill the house. Then she would set fire to the damn place with the lighter. She'd run, and behind her, the bungalow would explode up in flames, crackling, roaring, sparks flying high, smoke billowing into the sky.
Lorelei nodded to herself. Yes, she'd do that. It was a foolproof plan. She wouldn't let herself think otherwise; she wouldn't let herself poke holes in it. This plan was the only thing keeping her sane.
Or was she already insane?
Lorelei stroked the lighter lovingly, flicking the flame on and off. On, off. On, off. It was fascinating; such a small thing could cause such damage. Lazarus was already damaged; he was already dying. He was doing it to himself by smoking all those cigarettes every day. It wouldn't be long before he got lung cancer; his lungs were probably already blackened with tar, slowly becoming the same colour as his heart. Now, this lighter which lit his cigarettes all these years, only an accomplice to his slow death, was now about to become the very thing that caused his death. Lorelei was going to burn him alive, and she would relish in the smell of his burning flesh —
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Lorelei froze, her head whipping up. Her short hair was clean now, and smelt vaguely of lavender. She knew that Lazarus had bought a lavender-smelling shampoo on purpose; it was Katy's signature smell. He did it so that every time Lorelei moved, she'd get a whiff of lavender, a burst of memory, and a waterfall of guilt because she knew that she was the reason Katy died. Slow emotional torture. He'd gotten better at it.
What she didn't know then was how much better.
Lorelei's dark eyes were fixed on the door. Slowly, she got up, and hid the lighter in her bra. She tiptoed to the corner, backing up against the wall; it was her safe corner. Nothing could creep up on her from behind; she could see the entire room and the door from this angle.
The door unlocked and slowly swung open. Lorelei gasped; she hadn't heard footsteps coming up to the door, only the sound of him going down the steps leading to it. Her breath held and her body tense, Lorelei prepared herself for whichever mood Lazarus was in.
