Page 89 of Porcelain Grave

The crowd is practically salivating, eager to see a monster dismantled. Thomas is shaking so hard he's practically vibrating on the stage, his face a mask of snot and tears. "Ophelia! Please! Forgive me! I love you! Please, my sweet daughter!"

"Shut your fucking mouth," I snap.

Three more women in plain masks glide onto the stage. I hand the axe to the one who is empty-handed, my eyes never leaving my father's terrified face. From the second woman, I take the whip. I run my fingers over the leather, feeling the wicked, sharp spikes embedded in the ropes.

I turn to Thomas, the whip trailing on the floor behind me like a snake. A slow, psychotic smile spreads across my lips.

"Time to start the lesson, Papa.”

I don't wait another fucking second. I snap the whip, and the sound is like a gunshot echoing through the chamber.

CRACK.

The spiked leather bites deep into Thomas’s shoulder, tearing through his thin shirt and ripping a jagged furrow into his skin. He lets out a scream so loud it vibrates in my teeth, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony. I don't feel a shred of pity; I feel a surge of electricity racing through my veins.

"That's for Mummy!" I scream, swinging again.

CRACK.

This time, the whip catches him across the cheek. The spikes hook into his flesh, shredding his skin like wet paper. Blood sprays across the floor in a hot, crimson mist. He collapses completely, sobbing and thrashing on the dirt, but the women holding his chains yank him upright, forcing him to take the punishment.

I go into a fucking frenzy. I whip him randomly—his thighs, his chest, his stomach—each strike leaving a shredded, gaping hole in his body. The guests are absolutely loving it; I can hear them cheering, some of them leaning forward with wide, hungry eyes, their masked faces twisted in sadistic glee. They’re practically salivating at the sight of this piece of filth being dismantled.

I bring the whip down hard across his lower back, and I feel a sickening thud. The spikes have gone too deep, burying themselves into his muscle and bone. Thomas lets out a strangled, wheezing shriek, his body locking up in a spasm of pain. I don't let go. I plant my foot on his shoulder and yank the whip back with a violent, guttural grunt.

Squelch.

The spikes rip out of his flesh with a wet, sucking sound, bringing chunks of skin and muscle with them. A spray of blood splatters across my dress and my face, warm and metallic. I wipe a streak of it across my cheek, laughing like a fucking lunatic. I don't stop. I keep swinging, my arm aching, my breath coming in ragged gasps, until my muscles are screaming and I'm drenched in his blood. I only stop when I'm physically exhausted, my chest heaving.

I toss the blood-soaked whip back to the woman behind me and reach for the second weapon. It’s a pair of heavy, rusted pliers, the kind used for pulling nails from old wood.

I kneel beside him, my eyes cold. He’s barely conscious, his body a map of shredded meat and open wounds. I grab his hand, pinning it to the floor.

"You liked taking things away from people, didn't you, Papa?" I whisper.

I clamp the pliers onto his pinky finger and twist.

The sound of the bone snapping is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Thomas screams—a high-pitched, pathetic wail that fills the room. I don't stop at one. I move to the next, and the next, crushing the joints, ripping the nails out by the roots. He starts begging, his voice cracking, sobbing for help, pleading with the guests, with God, with anyone to make it stop.

"Help me! Please! Ophelia, stop! I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!"

"Sorry doesn't bring back the dead, you cunt," I hiss, giving one last, brutal twist to his thumb before tossing the pliers aside.

I'm done playing. I stand up and take the double-sided axe. It feels heavy and right in my hands, a relic of absolute justice. The women holding the chains drag him, sobbing and bleeding, toward the guillotine. They shove his neck into the wooden collar, locking it tight. He’s shaking so hard the whole structure vibrates.

I walk toward him, the axe dragging slightly on the floor. He looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot and streaming with tears.

"Ophelia... please," he whimpers, his voice a broken shadow. "Have mercy on your father. I gave you life... please, just this once..."

I stop right in front of him. I lean in close, so he can smell the blood on my skin.

"You didn't give me a life, Thomas," I whisper, my voice devoid of any emotion. "You gave me a nightmare. And now, I'm waking up."

He lets out a scream.

I step back, plant my feet, and swing the axe with every ounce of hatred I've carried for seven years.

THWACK.