Running my fingers through various blades and knives splayed on my weapon table, I pass them all and settle on the drill.
Thetrrrsound makes him snap his head, his breathing speeding up when our gazes connect. He shakes his head, sweat running down his forehead and mixing with blood as he freezes. “Why do you need that?”
The stupidity of humankind is sometimes astonishing because no matter their status or age, they all act the same.
And for whatever reason, till the very end, they hold on to the hope that I would show them mercy if they talk enough or ask idiotic questions.
They bore me on rare days and annoy me on most, intensifying the desire to shut their mouths permanently, as wasting precious air on these people is a crime in itself.
“I’m a pastor at the church. What you’re about to do is a sin.” He tries another tactic, gulping for air, his hands gripping the chain so hard that his nails break, and he winces, tears cascading down his cheeks. “God doesn’t forgive sinners.”
I come closer to him, my boots thumping loudly on the parquet floor. He steps back, but it’s useless. The chain—oras I prefer to call it, my personal leash—gives us little room to wiggle.
“Is that so?” I ask, rubbing my chin with the back of the drill, and he nods as hope lights up his features, swallowing hard.
“God is merciful toward those who change.”
“I agree.” He exhales in relief, which does little to elevate his pitiful state. His clothes are torn, soaked with sweat, and the front of his pants is wet, and by the smell polluting the air, the fucker must have pissed himself.
Those who deem themselves powerful are cowards who can’t even hold their natural impulses when threatened by someone stronger than them.
And in this, their lives become useless.
“God is merciful. I am not.”
“No, no,” he shouts, and it turns into an agonized scream when I grab the collar, keeping him still, and turn on the drill once again, but this time, aiming at his dick and shredding it into tiny pieces as blood pours from the wound.
He thrashes in my hold, although all his attempts are useless since his strength is nothing against mine, and once done, I kick him hard, letting him sway back and forth as his feet stamp over shards of glass.
He presents a hideous sight of my creation, as all my victims are my art pieces that, sadly, can never be displayed anywhere. I don’t even keep trophies, as they don’t deserve to be remembered.
“God will help me,” he whimpers, resting his forehead on his arm, breathing heavily, and coughing up blood.
Rage glides through my veins, awakening the familiar fire existing within me, ready to destroy anyone who uses faith as their shield from all the atrocities they’d committed against the innocent.
“You said God doesn’t forgive sinners.”
“Yes,” he barely manages to whisper, and whimpers, yet again, and his weakness only spikes my need to kill him.
Patience, patience, patience.
Art pieces require preparation, time, and attention to detail. Otherwise, the creation wouldn’t be complete or worth the resources I put into it.
Besides there is no justice when rushing things.
Going back to the table, I put the drill away and snap my fingers. The music changes instantly to high classical notes, casting a sense of doom around us, and his whimpers grow louder. “Do you recognize this music, Pastor?”
Wrapping my hand around the plier lying next to my blade collection, I turn and grin at him while he blinks, licking the sweat from his upper lip, then groans since the tape tore most of his skin from there. “It’s one of your favorites.” Walking toward him, I point at the speakers when the music grows louder, and his shoulders sag, another kind of dread settling on his washed-out features that I wish I could smash to no end.
Patience, patience, patience.
“That’s what you like to play during your sessions, so no one can hear what you truly do in your office.”
He swallows. “No, no. I can explain. It’s not—” He screams when I push my arm back and punch him in the face, the cracking sound rocking between us, and by how his nose loses its shape, I know I’ve broken it. The fucker starts crying even harder as if expecting the sound to move me.
“Does God forgive perverted men who hurt people, Pastor?” By how his body trembles, using all its last resources in survival mode, I know he heard me, and he’s finally starting to realize there is no escape from my purgatory.
His dark soul will stay trapped in it for eternity.
