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“I’ve been saving this part,” I say, setting the bone saw aside and pick up the next tool. The scalpel feels light in my hand as I step closer, my eyes locking onto his. “You took what wasn’t yours. Again, and again. So, I’m taking what makes you think you had that right.”

The catheter tubing snakes down from beneath the restraints, its translucent surface clouded with condensation. Clean now but far from sterile, it serves as a reminder of his fragility. I grasp it with gloved fingers, tilting my head as I watch his chest heave weakly, each breath rattling in the chilled air.

“This is going to sting,” I say, my tone flat, clinical.

With a sharp, practiced motion, I pull the catheter free. He jerks in the chair, a raw, muffled cry scraping from his throat as the tube slides out. A weak spurt of urine follows, splattering against the floorboards before mixing with the water still pooling from the hose.

The air grows heavier, thick with the mingling scents of blood, disinfectant, and his waste. I step back, watching his trembling form with detached curiosity. The once-pathetic protests have dulled, each cry slower to rise, weaker to sustain.

“You’ll endure,” I mutter, discarding the tube and wiping my gloves on the nearby towel.

His body convulses slightly, the straps biting into his skin as he thrashes. Tears stream down his face, mingling with the sweat dripping from his hairline. I give him a moment to absorb the shock, leaning the scalpel against my palm as I watch him. His cries are hoarse, each one clawing its way out of his throat like a dying animal’s last gasp. The sound echoes in the confined space, weak and broken, yet it fuels the dark satisfaction coiling in my stomach.

“This,” I say, my voice steady as I lower the scalpel to his pelvis, “is the part you’ll regret the most.”

The incision is deliberate, measured as I cut at the base of his penis. One, two, three passes through his flesh. Blood wells instantly, dark and viscous, matting the coarse hair at his groin as it spreads outward, pooling in his lap before dripping onto the floor in uneven splatters. My gloved hand doesn’t waver as I reach for the next instrument, the shear’s familiar heft a comfort in my palm.

His body arches in the restraints, what’s left of his muscles trying to pull himself free. A sound tears out of him, a blood-curdling scream. His breath comes in short, whistling gasps, each one hitching higher until he’s hyperventilating. His chest is heaving in a quickened pace, unable to keep up with the panic running through his body. If he’s not careful, he’s going to pass out and miss all the fun. His eyes roll back, showing white.

This just won’t do. I grab some smelling salts from the tray and crack them open, waving them under his nose. He gasps, a violent inhale that catches in his throat. He eyes snap open, pupils blown wide. For a moment he just stares past me, unfocused. That’s when I see it. The pain floods back in and I watch it land. A wheezing sound escapes him.

“I’m glad you’ve settled. I tell you, Virgil, you’re behaving as if someone’s trying to castrate you. Now back to business.” I drop the salts back on the tray and pick up the shears.

This isn’t impulsive. It’s a decision. Men like him, their power comes from what they take, what they believe is theirs by right. This is about stripping that power away, cutting it from him in every sense of the word.

I move fast before he knows what my next move is. The blade moves with precision, slicing cleanly through the flesh of his testicles. Blood spills in a hot surge, pooling in his lap and dripping onto the floor in a crimson rhythm. He won’t need these where I’m sending him. The severed sac drops heavily to the floor with a wet thud, like meat forgotten at the bottom of a butcher’s bag. I cock my head, smirking as the sound resonates. “Oops,” I say, my voice dripping with mockery. “Looks like you dropped something.”

A tremor runs through him in waves, full-body, uncontrollable shaking. His hoarse screams claw at the air. He thrashes weakly against the restraints, each pathetic spasm only tightening their grip. He loses control of his bladder and urine starts to seep from where his penis is limp, hanging from where I didn’t sever it completely through. The acid must burn because he wails even louder.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” I mutter, crouching to grab a cloth. “You didn’t need them anyway. You sure as hell didn’t deserve them.”

I drop the scaple onto the metal tray with a sharp clang, reaching for the cauterizing iron. The device whirls faintly in my hand, its tip glowing a bright orange. Heat radiates from it as I bring it close, the metallic tang of burning flesh rising almost immediately.

“Just a little bite.”

I press the searing tip against the wound, and his body jerks violently, the restraints groaning under the strain. The scent of scorched skin fills the room, sharp and nauseating. The bleeding slows, then stops entirely, the wound blackened and sealed beneath the iron’s brutal efficiency. Screams tear from his throat once more, raw and animalistic, reverberating in the small space. I steady my hands, ignoring the tremble that threatens to creep into my grip, focusing only on the task before me.

This is not about rage or retribution, it’s about power. Control. Stripping him down to something lesser, something he cannot rebuild. The act is clinical and detached, but the satisfaction unfurling inside me is anything but. For years, he wielded his authority over me, over others, a shadow darkening everything it touched. Now, with each precise motion, I peel it away, layer by layer. There is no repentance in his eyes, only terror and the sharp glint of pain.

By the time I step back, my chest is tight, my breaths shallow but steady. My hands, gloved and steady, bear the evidence of what I’ve done, but my mind feels lighter. A balance restored.

My gloves are slick with blood, and I peel them off with a snap. The room is quiet now. He’s pale, his eyes are glossy with shock. I lean close, my voice low and steady, my breath warm against his sweat-slicked skin. “You’re not done yet, Virgil. But I think you understand now. This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”

I pause, letting my words sink in as his ragged breaths fill the air. Then I murmur, “The prophet Isaiah said, ‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’” I tilt my head, my lips curling into a faint smile. “Too bad redemption isn’t in the cards for you, is it? I’ll have to settle for making you understand what sin feels like.”

I leave him there, slumped in the chair, his body trembling against the restraints, letting him be alone with his thoughts. I step into the cold night air. The stars above are brilliant, indifferent to the horrors below. The pigs will be ready in the morning.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

The morning sun cuts through the trees in golden shafts, scattering light across the cabin’s weathered porch. Leaning against the porch railing, a steaming mug of coffee in my hands, I take a deep breath, the rich, bitter aroma mingles with the crisp, cool air.

Out here, the world feels clean. Unspoiled.

The pigs grunt and shuffle in their pen, their noises carrying faintly over the breeze. They’re restless, as usual, waiting for their breakfast. I glance toward the shed, my eyes lingering on the door. I wonder if he died. I wonder if he spent hours praying to a God who turned his back on me. I hope not. It would be a shame if the pigs couldn’t finish the job. I take a slow sip of coffee, the heat scalding my tongue, and force myself to look away. There’s a day to get through before I even think about setting foot in that shed, and it won’t wait for me to indulge in the satisfaction of last night’s work.

At the clinic, the air is thick with the sterile tang of disinfectant. Patsy greets me at the nurse’s station with her usual weary smile. “Morning, Lydia. You look… better rested than usual.”