“You want to be first, Hannah?” A sadistic smile spreads across his face. “That can be arranged.”
By the time the memory fades, I’ve not only removed his eyes, but I’ve cut out his tongue and sawed off his ears. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
Placing them all in a pile by my feet, I stare down at them with a frown. “I’d present these to Mom if she had a grave, but you couldn’t even give her that, could you, you son of a bitch?” He doesn’t answer, of course, which oddly irritates me. I’m not as satisfied as I thought I’d be. It was over too quickly. He didn’t suffer enough. There wasn’t enough blood.
There will never be enough blood.
For Mom.
For me.
For Cain.
For Madi.
For all the Marys I turned a blind eye to because it was easier that way.
I carve the obligatory twelve in the part of his chest still remaining and wipe the blood on my jeans. It’s sloppy. I’m disappointed in myself, but I didn’t leave much area to work with. It’ll have to do.
Twelve for Twelve. I’ve completed the work she started.
I look down at his eyes again. I should concede to consistency and take them with me, but it sickens me to look at them, much less hold them in my hand. No, this rule I’ll break and leave them here, along with the two other parting gifts.
Standing, I turn my back and walk away from one of the only two remaining parts of my past. Now I can focus on the second.
Seeing her will be much more pleasant.
SIX WEEKS LATER
She’s sinking deeper and deeper into the red-stained waters of our past. Eventually, she’ll drown if I don’t throw her a life vest. However, I’m a wanted man, so once again, I’m regulated to the shadows. The night is my playground, and the moon, my sun.
It’s always been where I’ve found the most comfort anyway.
I’ve watched Madi for six weeks. I’ve seen the toll my trial has taken on her—enough for her to seek out professional help. I know, I found the pill bottles scattered across her room.
Not only is she sinking, she’s slipping under.
At first, it didn’t make sense. Madi lived through being kidnapped at sixteen. She endured two years of captivity and survived the horrors of her eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t put the pieces together to figure out how one trial broke her apart.
It took four weeks to find out it didn’t.
Opening the door to the small shed, I’m greeted with the strong scent of piss and shit.
Good.
Muffled sounds come from the center of the room, but I don’t acknowledge them. Instead, I hum a familiar hymn as I calmly close the door behind me. The frantic noise grows louder, and it’s like music to my ears.
Fear. This is my favorite part.
I walk across the room to a folding table set up in the far corner. Still humming, I fold back my favorite woolen blanket to reveal my toys. Showtime.
“You know what these are?” I ask my guest. He doesn’t answer, but then again, I don’t expect him to. That’s part of the game, and besides, he’s a little tied up at the moment. “These are all handcrafted tools designed to mimic those used in the good old medieval days. I’m somewhat of a collector. A connoisseur some might say.” I glance over my shoulder at him and smirk. “Of course, you already know that, don’t you?”
Ignoring his garbled pleas, I return my focus to the table. It’s a tough decision, but I decide on my long Cutlass sword and a smaller but no less effective Damascus Sgian Dubh knife. Holding one in each hand, I turn around and assess my handiwork.
Jackson King is stripped naked and hanging in the corner where I left him four hours earlier. Only now, he’s hovering over a puddle and pile of his own excrement—an unfortunate byproduct of the Judas Cradle he’s currently attached to.
Another one of my favorite medieval acquisitions.
A horseshoe-shaped harness is strapped around his waist and secured with ropes that are tied to four metal bolts in the wall—two on one wall for one arm and two on the opposite wall for the other. A third rope is bound around his feet, and I added two ankle weights just to be a sadistic motherfucker. He almost looks like he’s floating on his back, but instead of bobbing in water, he’s suspended in mid-air.
But that’s not the main attraction.
The pièce de résistance is the seat—the sharp, pyramid-shaped wooden device that sits on three legs positioned directly beneath him. When I left, he hovered above it. Unfortunately for him, he has twisted so much that the rope slackened, and now it’s shoved up so far up his ass, it’s licking his colon.
I smile as I pull the sock out of his mouth, and immediately he starts screaming for help. Irritating, but useless. No one can hear him.
I let out an annoyed sigh. “Are you done now?”
“You’re crazy, man!”
Insults don’t bother me. Especially true ones. Shrugging, I place the sword on another table behind me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The stupid motherfucker jerks on his restraints, wincing when the pyramid gives him a spontaneous colonoscopy. “Wh-why are you doing this?”
Closing the distance, I look him in the eye. Sinner to sinner. Executioner to the condemned. “I’ll tell you if you tell me something first, and no lying. I hate lies, Jackson. They’re a sin.”
“F-fine. Yes. Whatever you want.”
“In what world did you think you could put your hands on Madigan Bailey and not get them chopped off?” In just speaking the words, my blood doesn’t just boil, it turns damn near volcanic. I want to drive my knife into his chest and drag it down until his guts spill onto the floor.
His face blanches. “What? I didn’t touch her.”
Irritated, I press the tip of my knife against his throat. “What did I say about lying?”
“Fine. I fucked her. But she wanted it. That bitch has been begging for my dick for years.”
“I’m afraid this conversation isn’t going anywhere,” I say with a frown. “Less talk, more action.”
Jackson’s eyes widen with fear. “No! No!”
His cries fall on deaf ears, along with his screams. It takes me only seconds to carve the number thirteen into his chest. It doesn’t surprise me that his skin breaks easily. It’s just as weak as he is.
“Now,” I muse, watching the blood drip down his chest. “Maybe you’ll be more forthcoming with the truth.”
“F-fine,” he stutters, his teeth chattering in shock. “I may have held her down, but so what? Why the hell do you care?”
Wrong answer. Wrong. Fucking. Answer. In seconds my hand is around his throat. “I care because she’s mine!” I roar. “I care because you stuck your dick in a sacred place. One that I claimed first! I care because I bleed for her.” I punch my chest with each word, the black mist spinning in my head as I glance up at the ropes. “And now you will too.”
His horrified eyes follow mine. “No! I’m sorry!”
Turning toward the table, I pick up the long Cutlass sword and take my stance behind the harness. “Sinners always repent in their final moments, Jackson. I hope God shows you mercy, because I sure as hell won’t.” With that, I slice through the ropes, impaling him onto the tip of the pyramid.