Page 118 of I Never Stopped Loving You

Irritation runs through my veins, and my arm strikes out slicing the knife across his cheek and splitting the skin wide open. Even in the dim light, I can see the beautiful crimson as it flows down his face and onto his bare chest. I don’t even allow these worthless pieces of scum to wear clothes while they’re down here. That’s a luxury they don’t deserve.

“It’s not worth it, man. Don’t give him the satisfaction of begging,” my other prisoner tells Arthur.

“He’s not wrong,” I tease as Arthur continues to snivel and cry like the fucking coward he is.

Blood continues to flow down his cheek, and I’m a bit worried I might have cut too deep. I should probably fix that. Can’t have him bleeding out just yet.

I rummage through my bag of goodies looking for my blowtorch. Mallet, no. Pliers, no. Why the fuck is there a dog collar in here? Oh yeah, Mr. Mattison. The crazy fuck who beat his wife nearly into a coma. The shock collar was one of the things they found at the home that he used to abuse her. Apparently, the sick fuck would leave her chained in a kennel some nights as punishment. It wasn’t pet play, it was pure abuse.

Long story short, he wore that shock collar as I made him beg for his life. I'd never use a shock collar on an animal, but on a piece of shit abuser, yeah. That was comical justice watching him writhe in pain as I turned up the voltage. I may have had my tech friend make a few tweaks. Let’s just say that many volts of nonstop electricity kind of fries the brain. It was perfect.

Ah, here’s my blowtorch. I swear I need to upgrade some of my equipment. A few of these knives are becoming too dull. While I’m all for making their torture more painful, I still do love the feeling of a sharp blade as it slices smoothly through flesh. A blade so sharp that they don’t feel its bite until they’re bleeding out as they try to hold the wound shut.

“Now, Arthur, do you have any idea why I brought you here?” I ask as I begin to heat a chisel.

The six-inch metal blade heats to a beautiful, bright orange. I can feel the heat permeating through the wooden handle.

“No. Please. I haven’t done anything.”

I can’t help but laugh at that statement. This man is the reason his wife is dead. The piece of shit was so close to being put away, but his lawyer found a way to get the case thrown out the window. Evidence that was somehow not only obtained illegally, but also had a missing signature on crucial evidence when it was being transferred.

The case was dropped. He got off scot-free after murdering his wife. She suffered through years of abuse until one day he snapped and went too far. The evidence was there, fucking black and white, zero doubts that he did it. He definitely has friends in high places for this big of a fuck up to happen, but that’s where I come in.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” I lie as I press the heated steel to his face cauterizing the wound.

His screams echo around us, causing a shudder of pleasure to run down my spine.

“Sorry. I guess we both lie,” I laugh as he continues to whine, drifting in and out of consciousness from the pain.

Fucking pathetic. I saw the files on his wife. The multiple accidents she was involved in. Falsified reports just to cover up the damage he did to her. She survived his abuse for years, yet this man is falling apart from just a little pain.

“There’s…gotta be something…you want,” he says through painful gasps.

“Nope. Not really. I think I have everything I want.”

I pull a chair in front of him and sit backwards in it. I let the edge of the chisel's blade run down his arm then trace each finger. His wrists are tied to the arms of the chair just as tightly as his ankles are bound to its legs.

“Tell you what, Arthur, I’ll make you a deal. If you can guess who I am, I’ll let you go.”

“Wh…What? I can’t see you,” he whimpers.

“That’s fine.”

“You’re using a voice changer.”

“I never said it would be easy,” I tease.

“There’s no way to guess who you are. It’s not fair,” he screams.

My arm slams the chisel down, just barely nicking the tip of his pinky finger. He cries out as I grip his hair and tilt him forward in the chair so my face is so close I can smell his breath through my mask.

“I never said it would be fair,” I hiss before releasing him, letting the chair land back down fast. Too fast.

The momentum carries him back causing the chair to tip, and he goes crashing to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete floor, and the whimpers stop. Fuck. He’d better not be dead.

His head lolls to the side as a loud, painful groan vibrates from his chest. Good. The fucker is still alive. I sit the chair back upright, then circle him wondering what I should do next. I grab the file of evidence off the table. So many photos showing exactly what he did to her in the end.

They ended up classifying it as a break-in and robbery gone bad, but I knew better. This was personal. Her neck was bruised from him strangling her. Dark purple bruises covered her rib cage where he pinned her down with his knees pressed into her small, delicate frame. Her nails were ripped back from how hard she fought him. Funny that not a single piece of evidence mentions the damage she did to her attacker as she fought for her life. Tough woman. She was strong. She was a fighter. Unfortunately, she was failed by so many, just like my little rabbit and her mother were failed all those years ago.