Ashes, Ashes

26 - Culpability

In the present, Richard was still dying on the cabin floor. 

Dawn whimpered and struggled against her restraints. 

And I ached to tell Liza the truth, to take my belated responsibility. 

But all I could do was scream against the gag, squirming against the ropes at my wrists and ankles. My hands were cold and numb. My fingers felt swollen from the blood that had pooled in them, unable to circulate back to my heart. I couldn't feel my feet. Gooseflesh prickled up my arms, and my body shivered, partly with cold and partly with horror. 

"Let me tell you a story," Liza said, touching the point of the knife to the bare skin of my forearm, pressing down with steadily increasing pressure until it pushed through the flesh, down into the meat. She gave it a slow, methodical turn, twisting a circle like loosening a cork, and I screamed into my gag. 

"A story about a girl who was so smart and brave and talented, and had the most tragic taste in friends. A girl who could have been so successful if she hadn't wasted her time with the worst kind of people." 

She screwed a coin-sized hole of flesh out of my arm and flicked it away, leaving a smear of blood and a throbbing ache in its wake. She traced the knife up to a higher point on my arm, dancing the point along the skin. Death by a thousand cuts? That seemed her style. She was nothing if not dramatic. 

"Time and again these assholes hurt her. But no matter what they did, no matter how awful, she loved them all the same. But you know who saw through it all? Me. Oh, you wouldn't think it. Poor little Liza. Dumb little Liza. Too shy and quiet for her own good. Head in the clouds, chasing her dreams of theater -- what would I know? Well. I know that every time someone said something cruel or hurtful or awful to Laurel, I was the one she came to. I was the last one left to pick up all the pieces after you assholes were done with her." 

My vision swam as she spun the blade around, twisting out another small circle of flesh from my arm. My throat worked, and I tasted acid, bile soaking into the rag stuffed into my mouth. I coughed, jaw seizing against the fabric, and I thought I might choke, thought I might asphyxiate right there, drowning in vomit, and wouldn't that be fitting. 

"Oh, not that she complained. No, she never seemed to realize how awful all of you really were. She always had these rose-colored glasses when it came to the group. And look where it took her. Isolated and betrayed. And brainwashed, up to the very end. I knew, you know? I knew how she was feeling. Of course I knew. But she wants to die, and she calls you. Where is the justice in that?" 

It was hard to focus on Liza's ranting through the blinding sear of pain. I could feel the heat of my blood oozing out of the wounds she'd opened in my arms. 

What was her vengeance for? 

Was it because she thought we had all driven Laurel to suicide? 

Or was it because we'd been closer to her, in the end, than Liza had been -- and she could not bear the pain of the jealousy? 

It might comfort her to know that Laurel's suicide had not been from depression. That it was a defiant choice, a decision to die on her own terms rather than wait for death to knock at her door. 

But it might enrage her further to know that Laurel had not confided that final, awful secret in her. That Liza, who had adored and worshiped her for all these years, hadn't been in the inner circle who would know Laurel's final and deadliest secret. 

Was there any answer that could give her peace? 

Did it make any difference, now that the blood of so many people was on her hands? 

It didn't matter now. I couldn't speak. My window had closed, and I would never get the opportunity to set this right. Liza had been the one to do the dirty work, but my silence had killed Parker and Abby and Richard. 

Richard. 

"You...psycho...bitch." He had managed to get to his feet somehow, one hand clutching against his gut, blood still pooling out between his fingers. Blood spilled over his chin when he talked. "You said...revenge." 

"Vengeance," Liza agreed, wheeling away from me to look at him. "Justice. It's not right that Laurel should be dead in a world where these worthless shitbags are still alive. If I can't bring her back, then the best I can do is kill them to balance the scales." 

With Liza distracted, I struggled harder, throwing everything I had into it. The chair tipped backward, rocked on two legs before settling back down. I did it again, heaving myself backward, desperate to get free however I could. 

Richard lunged for Liza, and she swung the blade at him. The two of them grappled. He was bleeding out, but he was bigger, stronger. 

"You weren't the only person who loved her!" Richard yelled, and then there was another noise, blocking out any reply, and my chair tipped to the floor at the same time, slamming me hard against the floor. I heard other sounds -- a thump, a scuffle, another thump -- but my vision was swimming, a gray that flickered at the edges. 

The chair had broken partially under my weight when it tipped backward, and I managed to free my feet, wriggling them free of their bonds, but they'd gone dead with lack of blood flow. I couldn't stand. I couldn't even feel them. Standing was impossible. Running was out of the question. 

Blood seeped steadily from my wounded arms, and I lay on the floor, defeated, phasing out of time and consciousness.