Psycho ➳ H.S.

Chapter 14

The sun rose and fell, rose and fell, and rose and fell in the sky. Carissa sat inside Lucas' home, right by the living room window, and stared out at the houses that littered the street. She didn't focus on anything- she merely opened her eyes to look, not to see; her ears heard, but didn't listen; she felt numb, paralyzed to the core.

In the midst of dragging her books off of his shelf while she was fetching her belongings from Harry's apartment the day after Constable Rogers informed her about Harry's wrongdoings, she caught sight of the horrible paint job they had done in the living room. Ugly splotches of red and blue and taupe were strewn about the walls carelessly, but she remembered what fun they had while doing so. She looked at their two handprints which they used to sign their work of art and wished she hadn't seen it.

While she was packing up her clothes, she noticed the picture of the two of them in the frame sitting on Harry's bedside table. Things were much simpler then, before all of the chaos settled in. Their smiles were wide and genuine; her eyes were crossed and her nose was scruched up, while he flashed his ever-so-famous grin; they were both happy. It was a moment which first struck her as heartwarming, but soon morphed into a wretched piece of her memory. Words couldn't describe how angry she felt.

A sudden urge came over her to take the frame and throw it to the ground and to make the glass shatter into tiny bits, but as soon as she picked it up she began to cry. She clutched it to her chest and bawled, wishing he was there to wipe her tears away. She wanted to kiss him again, and she would do anything just to have him play with the ends fo her hair and tell her that things would be okay. But things weren't going to be okay- she knew that quite well.

Lucas helped her move her belongings back to his home where she requested to reside in his spare bedroom, just down the hall from the master suite. It had been a while since she had set foot in his palatial home, but it certainly hadn't changed. It still made her feel minuscule and unworthy. His fondness of getting her material things while they were still dating made her wonder if she came off as the type that needed to be bought, not loved.

Lucas observed Carissa as he took care of her. She would act like a ghost around the house, never making any noise, and always retreating back to her room when she was done with whatever activity she was doing. She avoided the television, not wanting to see Harry on the screen. His case was all that seemed to plague the news.

Carissa often sat at the edge of her bed from dusk until the morning light, thinking. She wasn't sure if any of her thoughts even made sense. In that time, she would touch her pendant periodically. She swore it was still warm, as if Harry had just given it to her after holding it in his hand.

Lucas didn't know that the steady chanting of her conscience pounded a drum in her temples- "forget him, forget him,"- all while being constantly masked by her chest screaming at her head- "remember!". She was tired of hearing the story of Icarus' freedom; she wanted someone to focus more on his plummet into the ocean, because that was how she felt- it hurt so much, she wished she had wings of wax so she could fly to the sun and tumble to oblivion just as Icarus did.

She still felt his arms around him. She still felt his lips pressed to her neck. She could smell his sweet, musky scent, see his smile, hear his voice, taste his lips- he was everywhere and nowhere all at once, and she couldn't understand it. She suddenly felt Harry reaching for her hand, so close she could practically feel it. She wasn’t scared- she wanted to hold him again. There was a loud creak from the door, which startled her in her sleep.

"Carissa?" Lucas called as he touched her hand. She didn't move from her curled up position on the bed. It wasn’t Harry that she felt, it was only Lucas. He gazed at her. He had never witnessed so much sorrow. "Carissa, you need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

"I don't want to eat."

"Look, I know you're upset. We all are. But starving yourself and refusing to talk about anything won't make it any better."

She closed her eyes, wishing he would just go away. Though she knew Lucas didn't deserve to be treated like that- he did volunteer to take care of her after all- it still didn't take away from the fact that she was miserable.

"I'll eat later," she compromised. She turned and looked at him. He didn't seem very happy. "I promise."

He sighed and nodded, leaving her alone once again.

But she wasn't alone- at least she didn't feel like she was. She was accompanied by the thought of him. Carissa clutched her necklace and let tears fall silently onto the pillow under her head.

***

"You deserve to die! Burn in hell!" spat a bystander as Harry was escorted out of the court house. There was a large crowd outside the building, even larger than on his first trial date earlier that week when he had been sentenced to twenty-five years in jail; the crowd outside begged for the death penalty.

Things had moved at an astoundingly quick pace in reality, but his mind had been wandering for millions of years.

"You're under arrest for the possession of evidence of the first degree murders of five women by the names of Daphne Fisher, Morgan Arabel, Roselle Vincent, Vienna Shaw and Willine Petersson, attempting to murder Lucas McCoy and Carissa Lim, and you have been accused for the second degree murder of Tyson Quinn."

"Of course he's guilty! Look at him! That man and those women died for nothing if you don't kill him!"

"We found journals and blueprints in your apartment with details of your murders, a detonating software installed on your phone, which matched the bomb planted under your car. Your DNA was also the one found outside Carissa Lim's home two weeks ago when she reported a figure standing outside her window."

"Now isn't it funny how the bomb was planted under the passenger's seat and not the driver's?"

The words rang in his ears as clear as day.

Carissa was the only person on his mind.

He spent a week under close watch in a jail cell. They stripped him of all his possessions, shoved him around, made him wear the typical orange jumpsuit, called him names, and told him he'd never get out of jail. What scared him most of all was what the guard said to him on his third night while he was sitting on the floor, unable to sleep. Harry couldn't tell if the guard was sided with him or not, but it was nice to have someone to talk to that didn't want him dead.

"They woulda killed ya," he started. He was standing up with his arms crossed, facing away from him. He occasionally turned to give him a glance as he spoke. "They woulda stuck needles in ya or electrocuted the skin off ya bones. Ya think they care that ya pleaded not guilty? No one gives a shit. They woulda killed ya, but they don't got the proof."