“Fuck me?” I point to myself, chuckling as I walk toward the metal table lining the wall, unbuttoning my suit jacket. “It’s always amusing to me when a man lacks the capability to understand that his life is in danger. I find that it’s normally one of two reasons. Would you like to hear them?”
Silence is my only answer.
“It’s quite interesting, I assure you.” Picking up my black gloves, I slip them over my hands, moving my fingers once they’re encased in the leather, admiring the way they feel against my skin. “It’s either a matter of pride, or it’s a lack of awareness. Both of which are terribly unbecoming traits.”
Anticipation simmers low in my gut.
“Do you know which one you are?” I spin around, reaching into my pocket and drawing out my hook knife. Flipping it open, I weave it between my fingers as I walk slowly toward his chair, stopping right in front of him.
He doesn’t answer, his eyes following the movement of my blade. I step closer, and his arms jerk against his zip ties, the plastic scraping against the metal backing of his chair.
“No?” I cock my head. “If you ask me...” The tip of my knife skims across his cheek as I walk behind him. “You lack the type of awareness it takes for one to understand danger. To really feel it. You see, if you had—” My gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “You would have known better than to continue disrespecting Wendy Michaels in my presence.”
“Look, I don’t kn-know who you are, but if this is about the coffee shop, I’m sorry, man.” He stutters his words, his voice growing high-pitched and tense.
I tsk. “There’s that loss of pride. Pity I can’t enjoy it.”
“Just let me go! I’ll do whatever, I’ll go apologize to that girl, if that’s what you want. I just... please.” His panic seeps through his words.
My grip tightens, and I bend until my face is next to his ear. “Stop speaking, or I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs while you bleed out all over your cheap polyester suit.”
His body tenses under my hand, but he grows silent.
I stand straight, squeezing his shoulder. “Good boy.”
Walking around to the front of him, I glance down at his trembling frame, the cast of my shadow creating a haunting aura.
“Where was that self-preservation in the coffee shop, friend?” My grin widens. “We could have saved so much time if you had just recognized your place.”
My head tilts when he doesn’t respond, my stomach tightening with excitement at the fear swirling through his muddy gaze. I lean in close, my voice low. “I asked you a question.”
“I do-don’t kn-know... I just… sorry... please let me g-go.”
“There, was that so hard?” I twist to face the twins. “Honestly, it’s rude how often people don’t speak when spoken to.” Turning back to the man, I note the wet spot forming on the front of his suit pants, the light gray material growing dark and damp. Pissing himself, no doubt.
A smile spreads across my face and a low chuckle escapes my chest. “Relax, man. I was only kidding about cutting out your tongue.”
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
A chill scratches through my insides, causing my head to twitch. I breathe deeply through my nose, trying to calm the nausea rolling through me, growing like a wildfire uncontained.
I lose the battle.
Lunging forward, I grip the man’s face between my gloved fingers. He grunts in pain. “I’ve already told you once how loud that vile piece of machinery is, yet you still wear it in my presence?”
His eyes grow wide, tears dripping down his ruddy cheeks.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The sound causes my insides to shrivel, memories surging forward, reminding me of all the times I had no power. Of all the times I was forced in positions where pride and respect didn’t exist. All the nights I laid in bed as an eleven-year-old boy, fresh from England and grieving the death of my family, wondering why on earth God made me survive.
What had I ever done that was so wrong?
My stomach rolls and heaves, bile burning up the back of my throat, as my mind spins from the flashbacks. I’m surrounded by the slap of my uncle’s crocodile boots on the wooden floorboards. My chest squeezes tight at the sound of his pocket watch, the tick, tick, tick, bleeding into the still of the night as he closes my bedroom door behind him.
Rage unfurls from the middle of my stomach, thick and heavy, bursting through my insides, blinding me from the explosion until all I see is fire.
My fingers grip against his jaw until his lips deform, forcing his mouth open in an “o”. My other hand, holding my knife, reaches into the open orifice and grips the tip of his tongue, pulling until he screams, his body thrashing against the chair. The feel of my blade slicing into the meaty flesh sends a slither of satisfaction racing down my spine.
“Well,” I say as I sever the last of the connective tissue, the rip of the muscle making me smirk. “I suppose I lied.”
Tossing the useless slab of meat somewhere behind me, I hook my knife in his armpit, thrusting the blade until the edge of the handle meets skin before yanking out; his Axillary artery spurting, the liquid hot as it sprays across my face.
Blood drips onto my arm as I raise the edge of my knife behind him, the snick of the zip tie being cut, lost in the muddled screams of agony that unfurl from his blood-filled, tongueless mouth. I pull his arm to the side of the chair, taking the blunt edge of the handle, and slamming it on top of the watch, shards of glass sparkling as they crash to the ground.
“Don’t.” I repeat the motion. “Disrespect.” The bones of his wrist collapse from the impact. “Me.” His fingers this time. “Again.”
Over and over, I bring down my arms until my sides grow tired from the repetition. My hair is falling on my forehead, a slight sheen of sweat breaking over my brow, and I flip the knife around, rage burning through my soul urging me to cut off his hand completely. Make sure that he’ll never have control of my reaction this way again.
How dare he think he could in the first place.
My knife saws through the tendons and vessels until it meets bone, the useless extremity dangling, skin mutilated and unrecognizable.
I move on, making gashes over his torso; one for every tick he’s made me endure.
The gurgling screams grow silent, as do the sounds from his timepiece, and as they fade, so does the rage.
Slowly, the nightmares disappear and my eyes blink back into focus. Glancing down, my chest heaving, I take in the blood spatter along my exposed skin and the fabric of my clothes.
I crack my neck, soaking in the blessed sound of silence.
My eyes move from the twins, lounging against the far wall, to the man bound in front of me, his eyes vacant and mouth gaping, his corpse soaked in blood from the long, jagged slashes across his frame. His arm is hanging at an odd angle, a pool of dark red formed under the mottled skin. I walk forward, glass from the broken shards of his watch crunching underneath my shoes.
The tightness in my chest eases, and I blow out a satisfied breath. Moving to the metal table, I strip off my gloves and grab my suit jacket before spinning to head out the door. I look at the twins who have straightened off the wall, and my steps falter as my foot presses on something soft. I look down, amusement flowing through my veins, when I see a severed tongue squished beneath the sole of my shoe.
I glance at the twins, running a hand through my hair. “Clean this up and make sure he wasn’t someone important.”
They nod, and I leave the room, adrenaline causing every cell to spark under my skin, my blood pumping fast, and my cock hard from the rush of the kill.
There’s something strangely gratifying about becoming someone’s judge, jury, and executioner. A type of thrill that can’t be replicated. One that courses through your insides and makes you feel untouchable. Infallible.
Like a god.
Walking up the back stairs and into the office, I grab a plastic bag and unbutton my shirt, followed by my pants—stripping off the blood-soaked fabric to have one of the boys discard.
Changing into the spare clothes I keep hanging in the closet, I sit down in my chair, kicking my feet on the desk, and light up a cigar, basking in the earthy taste. Clicking on the computer screen, I pull up a photo of Peter Michaels and his family, desire cramping my stomach when I zone in on Wendy’s face, imagining what it will feel like to have her underneath me. To have her submitting to me fully before I break her and send her back to a fatherless home.
I groan, palming my cock over my pants as it pulses behind the zipper.
Wendy Michaels is a delicious treat, and I can’t wait to enjoy every bite.
7
Wendy
“But you’ll be home for dinner?” I hate the way my voice sounds—infused with a pleading tone in hopes my father will actually come home.