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I have felt everything fear offers for over a week, but the only emotion I can currently focus on is pure rage. This particular brand of wrath is a silent and deadly steel blade, not an explosive firearm.
Anger is a great motivator when put to proper use. Anger is an agent of change, and the only change I am looking forward to is the end of this man’s life.
I grab his throat and force his head back.
“Tell me everything.”
Hope drains from his body upon realizing his death is a guarantee, and the foolish notion that he will leave here alive is destroyed.
After that, he is less cooperative, but it only makes the rest of the game much more fun.
Evidently, torturing a man for information is cathartic. Some of the tension I bottled up begins to dissipate with each piece I take from him.
I had never understood when people say getting information out of someone is like pulling teeth. But as I take the pliers to his teeth and extract them one by one, I begin to understand. The satisfaction of literally pulling information from this man is worth the extra effort of the grueling task.
One by one, I remove his teeth, and blood begins to pool in his mouth. The barn becomes heavy with the scent of iron as his mouth turns into a fountain of blood. It pools in his mouth, causing him to gag and desperately gasp for air. But each attempt is futile, and the gurgling sound satisfies a sick part of me that wants this man to choke on his own blood. I want him to suffocate in it until he dies.
I am far too focused on the sight before me to notice anything beyond the man’s gasping breath and terrified eyes.
For extra measure, I go over to the tools table and pick up a small knife. Its weight in my hand is a heady feeling. Part of me wonders how much damage I’m capable of. It’s screaming at me to find out. Another is satisfied with merely knowing.
Tears continue to stream down his face, but when he sees the knife I hold, all of the pain painting his features is immediately replaced by panic.
I grasp him by the chin and force his mouth open for the final time.
He has a few teeth left, but I’m not concerned anymore. We have what we need from him. All that is left is his death.
Taking the pliers in my right hand, I catch hold of his tongue and pull it taught, and with the knife in my left, I begin to carve.
All of the red dripping out of his mouth and onto the floor is mesmerizing. It’s a beautiful and horrid image to witness. But all I can think of as I look on is how the color would look on Julia.
I want to see her painted in it. She will be a warrior in their blood. An unstoppable force fueled by their suffering.
Coming out of the trancelike state I slipped into, I look back at Rosie. She seems satisfied and gives me a nod. I know we got what we wanted from him.
Most of all, his end.
