Glancing at her wristwatch to see that it is well after ten, the nurse finishes fixing up the sheets at the foot of the small bed. With both palms, she carefully tugs at the linen to make sure it's flat around the small indent of feet crossed underneath. Through the open door, Paige can see that the deputy that was once standing in the hall is now nowhere to be seen. Unknown to her, he is still standing alongside his senior colleague in the parking lot talking to dispatch about Morgan's escape.

"How much longer do I have to wear these?" Paige moves her right arm in a slight circular motion, relieving an itch on her wrist with the inner edge of the leather restraint.

"Just for the remainder of the night." The nurse grabs her shoulder softly, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "It's just the hospital's policy that we have to keep them on for at least 48 hours. Like I was telling you earlier, it's part of the psych evaluation."

"Psych evaluation?" Paige scoffs, trying her best not to laugh. Even though, really, she doesn't find the situation the slightest bit amusing. "You guys must think I'm a crazy person. Can I at least get up to use the restroom?"

The nurse nods, undoing the straps immediately. Although Paige has hardly been drinking any fluids, this is her third time to go today. Perhaps it's just an excuse to get up and stretch her body but, either way, the nurse doesn't seem to mind.

Groaning, Paige lifts herself up from the mattress and turns to lower her feet to the floor. Even through her thick socks she can feel each cold tile beneath her feet as she steps forward, nearly stumbling into the nearby end table. The nurse lightly grabs her shoulder and attempts to help her up when Paige flashes a palm her way.

"I slit my wrists. Not my ankles." Paige says, rolling her eyes as she slowly steps toward the door to her right. Harnessing her inner feistiness, she seems to be feeling better. Well, at least well enough to the point to where she can hold an actual conversation with someone. She opens the door to reveal a small restroom tucked in the corner of the room and steps inside, locking the door shut behind her.

A minute or so later, a flush is heard before she steps back out through the door and walks over to the sink. She washes her hands briskly, desperately craving a hot shower at the moment but that's unlikely to happen anytime soon. The nurse leads her back to the bed and, after Paige lies down and is tucked under a blanket, she pulls the straps back around her wrists. The nurse makes sure to purposely leave the restraints a bit loose for comfort, yet not enough for her to slip her hands through, as she pulls a leather band through a thin metal hoop.

"Sorry." Paige watches as the nurse fastens the final restraint on her left wrist. The nurse then lightly clasps a pulse oximeter probe onto her index finger. "I get defensive sometimes. Well, bitchy is more like it. And most of the time it's unprovoked. I'm working on it."

"Tell you what." The nurse, clearly not holding any grudges, smiles up at her. She tilts her head back down to signal to the leather straps. "I'll talk to the doc and see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"Absolutely." The nurse fixes her long, white skirt as she rises up. Old school and all, she's one of the few nurses her that prefers the uniform over scrubs. She eyes a large plastic tray lying on the end table, noticing that the small cup of red gelatin is completely devoured. Everything else, including the ham and cheese sandwich, remains untouched. "Is there anything else I can get you? More jello, perhaps?"

"No." Paige cracks a smile. As much as she doesn't want to be here, the staff seems to be treating her better than her own mother does at home. The same mother who has yet to once come visit her daughter after she was admitted into the emergency room. "Thank you."

The nurse nods and gives her another light squeeze on the shoulder before turning around to walk through the open doorway, slipping into the hallway. Although she slowly closes the door behind her, the large handle loudly latches shut the second it comes into contact with the metal bolt.

Paige glances out the window, which its blinds have remained pulled opened since the sheriff visited her the night before, and she watches out at an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the service road in the distance. She wonders where they're going and why they're in such a rush to get there. Perhaps they had gotten lost and are fervent to get back on the right track to their destination.

If that's the case, she can relate.

The latch pops loudly again, this time as the door is slowly pushed open. Through the reflection in the window, she can see a strip of light glaring back at her as a distorted silhouette stands directly in the middle of it. The figure slips into the room, allowing for the door to shut behind them.

"Let me guess, he said n—" Expecting to see the nurse, or perhaps the doctor that had paid her a visit earlier, she twists her head just as—suddenly—a gloved hand clasps onto her mouth.

Grunting from behind the hand, which cups her lips so tightly together she fears that her teeth might shatter, she looks up at the white mask peering down at her from the bedside from underneath a black hood. She tugs at the restraints, still unable to move her arms and kicks helplessly at the foot of the bed. The killer's free arm finds itself lingering above her pulsating chest as the blade of his knife begins to emerge from its sleeve, much like a snake being coaxed from its nest.

As she looks up at him, she blinks a couple of times before her eyes go dull and her body falls limp. Sensing her odd state of calmness, he slowly removes his hand from her mouth and—to both of their surprise—she doesn't scream. Instead, she speaks in a calm whisper.

"I told them everything. About the accident—about Daniel." Her eyes gaze down to the blade, watching as it glistens in the moonlight pouring in from the window. She can see her own reflection looking back at her near its sharp, curved edge. "I guess we both got what we wanted."

An exchange, at this point, she is more than happy to make. She would rather die than live with this guilt any longer.

Still peering down at her, he tilts his mask as he examines her body—as if momentary reconsidering what he is about to do—before looking back up to lock eyes with her. Part of him wants to see her suffer more emotionally, to live and be haunted everyday by her past. Yet there is another side, one that usually overpowers the former, that wants to see her suffer physically. To pay for everything she has done, reparation that he's only willing to accept with blood.

Then again, she already tried to kill herself. If that isn't the sign of enough emotional damage, then...

Without further hesitation, the killer quickly lifts the knife higher in the air and thrusts it downwards. It plunges into the center of her chest, her ribs snapping inwards as the blade punctures a lung, and pulls the handle further down to her stomach—the knife slicing a long, jagged line through her skin down to her belly button. Her eyes immediately flutter closed, blood spitting out of her mouth as her flesh around the deep slice begins to pull apart and the wound further opens. Her hospital gown, as well as the thin sheets above her, quickly fades into a dark red as the killer slowly lifts the knife out, seeing a small sliver of intestine wedged in between the notches on the spine of the blade.

As the blood oozes through the sheets and drips down to the floor below, the machine next to the bed makes a continuous ear-piercing beep as a straight green line fills the small monitor's screen. Quickly, he slices one of the thicker cords hooked up to the rear of the monitor, silencing it as the display flickers to a pitch black.

"You wanted to spill your guts." The killer speaks softly, looking down at the mutilated body. It's the voice of a man muffled behind the mask, referring to more than just the secret Paige had revealed. "You're welcome."

♫ ʟᴏsᴛ / ᴋʀɪs ᴀʟʟᴇɴ ♫