Page 18 of Inflict

He held the hammer tighter to his chest, the weight of it substantial, though he didn’t understand why, as he’d held one before.

It was only the soft meowing of the kittens in the bathtub that broke Connor from his daze. His gaze darted to the right, and it took him far too long to understand the mass of moving black plastic he was seeing. The cats were in a garbage bag, tied at the top, sitting in the tub.

Waiting.

For him, apparently.

“I’ve made it easy on you for the mother,” Sean said. “Her legs are broke.”

Connor looked from the hammer, to the moving bag, and then back to his father. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Hit them.”

Like that?

With them in the bag?

That would be awful!

It could take three swings, if he knew where the heads were, but it was more likely to take fifty damn swings, and that would be torture. That was unfair—only a monster would do something like that to innocent animals who didn’t even understand why they were being hurt in the first place.

“Or,” Sean drawled, bringing in Connor’s attention again, “you can pull them from the bag, know where they are, and watch what you’re doing while you do it. It’s up to you—have a conscience or don’t; I don’t give a damn, but you’re taking too long to decide, and I’m about to show you how to start.”

Connor didn’t like that idea at all.

His father wouldn’t make it easy on any of the cats; it wasn’t in his father’s nature to be kind, or to show mercy.

Connor knew that all too well.

His hands shook, sickness spilled onto the back of his tongue, and his eyes burned with the tears he held back, but Connor faced the reality, even though it made him feel terrible inside to do it. He would kill the cats—he would do it because he was the merciful one, he cared.

He would make it quick. He pulled out his pocket knife, sharp and ready, as it always was, and dropped the hammer to the tiled floor with a loud clang. He kept his eyes glued on the shower wall as he ripped a hole into the garbage bag, and pulled out the first cat—the black and white kitten.

He was quick—careful.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t say a word.

He tried not to think.

He felt colder than ever.

His father laughed the whole time.

Red ran down the drain like Sean had wanted, and it even sprayed the walls, and soaked into Connor’s clothes, too.

Who knew something so wee could have so much blood?

Who knew?

• • •

“Declan.”

“Sean.”

Connor peeked around the corner of the main room’s entryway, careful to keep himself hidden from view of the men in the large entrance of the home. It didn’t seem to matter—neither of the men noticed him spying, and while he knew better, he couldn’t help himself.