CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | FOREVER
______
MACHINE GUNS BLARED as security officers fell limp into heaps of their own blood, bullets pierced the white walls as the curdling screams of the night-gown dressed patients as they saw the scene delicately unfold to masacre.
Genevieve huffed, shooting another officer before turning around and killing another. A never ending, back and forth routine. The machine guns that were curdled between her fingers felt awfully heavy against her as her ears seem to clog in agony.
She quickly gripped the patients arms and so of other female psychiatrists, pulling them out the asylum for safety. Her leather gloves smashed against one of the officer's chins as she easily knocked him down, feeling the shiver of the cracked bone surge through her body.
"Move! Move! Move!" Genevieve kept pushing the patients out of the way, keeping them behind her as she began tackling one of the officers—who attempted to attack her with an electrical batton.
Curling her fists, Genevieve quickly jumped to the fighting stance—her opponent was large, very large compared to her, with a larger build and an evermore scowl on his lips.
Quickly, she side-stepped him, throwing a quick and steady left hook to the officer's cheek, feeling the burn of her fist against his raw cheek. Genevieve could feel the officer stumble back a bit in surprise, but he quickly jolted back and regained his former fighting stance. He followed her actions and threw a punch towards Genevieve's direction—this time instead in her upper body, in her diaphragm.
Her lungs flattened in a spasm as Genevieve's composure fell, her lungs seemed to deflate, but by each breath she took, no air seemed to reach her lungs. She clenched her fists against her chest, feeling inner tears swell on the corner of her eyes as she pulled back, breathing harshly.
With a shake of her head, Genevieve blinked rapidly attempting to regain her composure. Luck seemed to fly off far, the officer kept kicking her, punching her and knocking her down.
Once air finally reached Genevieve's lungs, she swung forward, charging towards him as she stood up, finally arriving at the chance to snatch the revolver that stood in belt and shooting him.
A breath of relief fled from her lips once she noticed the lack of officers in the specific story of the psychiatric mental institution. They were all laid dispersed around the floors, completely lifeless.
Genevieve's eyes widened once red lights immersed in the building, casting on the bland walls and the other patients.
"Hurry!" The leftovers of the other patients and psychiatrists quickly scrambled, fleeing to safety as deep yells crucified from the outsides of the asylum.
Before Genevieve could follow them and disappear before the police arrived, a voice called out for her, it was fragile and cracked. Utterly helpless.
"Heather! Heather! Help!"
Genevieve followed the voice cautiously, recognizing the tone in familiarity of Dr. Greyson's. She eyed the sign-tag that printed her faux name, Heather Beau, feeling the voice from the inside.
She pushed the door open, in no surprise revealing a limp looking Dr. Greyson. Genevieve could spot the dry blood that casted his body as he clutched his stomach with one hand as the other reached out to Genevieve.
"Heather, please!" Dr. Greyson begged, reaching for Genevieve's hand, watching desperately as she stepped forward, his voice cracking. "I—need—help!"
A lump cremated Genevieve's throat as she feigned her tears, launching forward trying to seize him in her grasp. "Oh, my love! What happened?!"
Dr. Greyson coughed, hugging her. "I don't know-know someone shot me, I was looking for you and then I got wounded!"
"Oh, my darling!" Genevieve cried. "What do I do for you?! You need help! Medical help!"
"Please—take me with you! You promised, remember? Once this is finished, we'll be together. Forever," Dr. Greyson held her tightly, digging his face in the crook of her neck.
Forever, Genevieve's eyes hardened once her body stiffened. Forever didn't exist—not for her, not for him, or for Elias. Genevieve wouldn't permit a "forever", especially not for someone who doesn't deserve it.
The grip that Genevieve held on Dr. Greyson's hair tightened extremely, almost to the extension that she pulled his scalp.
"Yes," Genevieve agreed, her tone sharpening. "I did promise that."
Dr. Greyson breathed in relief. "Forever?"
Genevieve hugged him tighter, her fingers creeping down his back to his lab coat's pocket, a small, metallic, sharp scissor falling in between her fingers. Swiftly, she brought her hand back and stabbed the sharp tool against his back, twisting it in Dr. Greyson's flesh.
"Forever."
A gag left Dr. Greyson's lips as he looked at her eyes wide, his lungs collapsing inside of him. "W-What a-a-are you d-doing?!"
"Do you think I don't hear what you do to the other patients—you're disgusting," Genevieve snarled, stabbing the scissor into his back again. "I owe you nothing, you were easy like everybody else."
The sounds of police alarms rang in the far off distance.
"B-But we we are in love!" Dr. Greyson painted, stings of pain traveling through his whole body.
Genevieve laughed maniacally. "No. I don't love you. I love another man, more pure, handsome, worthy...than you'll ever be."
"Y-You are c-crazy!" Dr. Greyson gagged against, amount of bloodied vomit leaving his throat.
The brunette sucked in a harsh breath and stabbed the man harder than before, feeling his large body fall limp in her hands. Genevieve laughed as she stuck her hands against his back, feeling warm blood wrap around her fingers as she raised to her feet, walking to one of the many white, boorish walls, slamming her bloodied hands against it. She smothered her hands as if painting, laughing as she touched his back again, her hands rapidly writing on the wall with his flesh.
As if in an instant she disappeared once the authorities arrived. Chills were brought down the officer's backs as they read what was written in blood on the wall.
I'M NOT CRAZY
***
Elias slammed the files against his work-desk. A habit he'd picked up on recently—he dug his hands in his hair. He was two months overdue for a haircut; a heavy stubble beard had grown onto his face from months of constant work.
He couldn't remember the last time he took a shower.
His sullen, tired eyes were trained firmly on the papers in front of him. The criminal photographs that filled his desk had consumed him these past couple of months and he couldn't let himself leave this case to anybody else.
"You okay?"
Elias looked up, looking at Smith exhausted as the chubby man handed him a mug filled with steamy hot coffee.
"Thanks," Elias looked back at the papers, feeling his companion sit in the empty desk chair next to him, exhaling loudly.
Smith peeked his gaze at Elias' papers, rolling his eyes once he noticed the case that he was filed. "You should take a break, Maverick. This isn't particularly healthy—I should know, I eat at least fifteen donuts each mornin'."
"I can't take a break," Elias hissed, taking a quick sip of the coffee, settling the mug on another pile of documented folders and books. "I need to finish this case—it's consumed all of New York. If I don't, then nobody will ever solve it."
"Maverick, I know you. You haven't failed a case ever!" Smith exclaimed, patting Elias' shoulder. "You should relax for a bit. You haven't been to your apartment for weeks! I need to fish out clothes for you everyday! And you stink!"
Elias looked at him with a deadpan expression. "If you came here to vex me, then you can leave Smith. I'm working. Go eat your hundred donuts or something."
Smith clicked his tongue. "Kid, I know the Genevieve thing was very traumatic—"
"Could you not say her name?!" Elias groaned, banging his fist against the wooden table.
"See! You're so clogged up with her death that you can't even realize what's good or wrong anymore!" Smith cried, taking a step forward and leaning on Elias' desk. "Look, I know this whole thing has been very traumatic for you—but, you're not the only one."
Elias licked his lips as his eyebrows furrowed in absolute confusion. "What do you mean?"
"For me Genevieve's death hit hard too," Smith looked down at his feet. "I mean, she taught me a lot of things. After she arrived I fully stopped cheating on my wife, she taught me to value family more, my wife and my kids. You should've seen their faces, they were so happy. I even apologized to my wife and now we're as happy as ever. And I owe it all to Genevieve."
"She really changed us. All of us. For the better," Smith said, nodding as he pushed himself off the desk.
"I-I didn't know," Elias whispered solemnly and looked back at Smith, sending the chubby man a small smile. "I'm happy for you."
"Thanks," Smith said, before quickly shaking his head and rubbing the tears that accumulated on the corner of his eye. "Anyway, how's the case going
Elias shrugged, biting his tongue. "Horrible. I can't find a single record over the name—Beatrice McQueen. I've searched everything—medical records, nationality, passports, bank accounts, foreign bank accounts. And nothing."
"What does that mean?" Smith asked, raising a brow.
"That she doesn't exist. Anywhere for that matter!" Elias exclaimed, pressing his palm to his forehead in frustration.
"What about the asylum runaway a few days ago?" Smith's forehead creased. "Did you go?"
"No I couldn't," Elias shook his head. "I had my day off, I was having dinner with my mom and Michelle, remember?"
Smith nodded in understanding. "What was the runaway's name again? I never had it clear?"
"Heather Burnett," Elias confirmed, reaching his arms out to a small folder and pulling a series of documents and photographs. "The only records she has is from the asylum, she's just like McQueen—almost nonexistent."
"Weird," Smith grumbled, placing his fingers on his chest in thought. "Do you think that maybe both cases are related?"
Elias shrugged absentmindedly. "Quite probable. But not fully confirmed. Many cases have passed like this, especially when people put on fake identities—the difference is that normally, in a fake identity there's always that clue that makes them a real person. But in this case Burnett and McQueen are almost nonexistent."
"Do you think that Genevieve might be involved?" Smith questioned.
"I doubt it," Elias scoffed. "There was no way she would have conquered doing that—especially when Burnett escaped after Genevieve's death.
Smith huffed. "Man, good luck. You're going to need it." He turned to leave, leaving Elias all alone in utter silence.
"Yeah, good luck," Elias whispered.
______