Page 38

Shhk… chak.

I open and close the shears again, letting the sound fill the space between us.

“You cloaked it in sermons, dressed it in scripture. But all you ever wanted was power. And now?” I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Now, you’ll never speak another word.”

The shears hover near his face, their sharp edges glinting in the dim light. Shhk… chak. I open and close them slowly, letting the sound crawl into his ears. His bloodshot eyes widen, panic overtaking pain as he realizes, too late, what’s coming. I reach forward, the spiked gloves gripping his face like a trap closing in. He tries to jerk away, but I clamp my palm over his jaw, forcing it open. My fingers, armored in those tiny, hooked teeth, latch onto his tongue with brutal ease, the grip unshakable. He thrashes violently, but it’s useless. I have him. I pull his tongue forward, farther, the muscle stretching, slick and quivering in my gloved hand. His screams are guttural, garbled by the raw panic surging through him.

Shhk… chak. The sound of the shears again, slow and deliberate. I want him to hear it.

And then, snap! The blades slice through with a wet, sickening crunch.

Blood erupts, thick and fast, spurting over my gloves, my arms. His scream breaks into a choking gurgle, a pitiful, animal sound, his body bucking once in agony before collapsing into convulsions. His head slumps forward, tongue severed, his voice silenced at last.

The shears clatter to the floor, sticky with his blood, their echo swallowed by the frenzied grunts of the pigs outside.

I stand there for a beat, breathing hard, the coppery spray still warm against my cheeks. His tongue, that vile, serpentine thing, lies on the floorboards like a twitching slug, thick and veined, curling slightly at the edges. The severed end leaks dark blood in a slow, rhythmic pulse, as if it’s still trying to speak. Still trying to twist scripture into justification.

I look at it for a long moment, pulling the gloves off.

Then I reach down and pick it up.

He makes a sound, wet and garbled, something between a scream and a sob. His eyes find me over the blood pouring from his mouth.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a needle. Heavy, threaded before I left the cabin.

I shove his tongue between his teeth. “Keep it in there,” I command. He bucks violently against the restraints. “You don’t want to find out what will happen if you spit that fucking thing out at me.” I hold his jaw firm, the same way he did mine at thirteen.

The first stitch goes through.

He can’t scream anymore. Just a thin, pressurized whine through his nose.

I keep going. Slow. Even. Deliberate.

By the time I tie off the last stitch, the only sound he makes is breathing. Nostrils flare as he pushes oxygen in and out. Tears stream down his face.

He’s almost complete.

I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out the lipstick. The same shade of red that he used to use on me.

I grip his jaw the way he gripped mine, hard, with no apology, and drag the color across his stitches. “A good girl leaves marks,” I say.

The words are out before I can stop them. His words. In my voice. I stand there and the shed goes quiet. Not actually quiet, the pigs are still going, but quiet inside my head. It’s so quiet, it scares me. I don’t know how long I stand there, but I know it’s long enough that my hands stop shaking and start shaking again.

I blink and take a deep breath.

“Not so eloquent now, are you?” I whisper, crouching beside the writhing mess in the chair. He tries to meet my eyes, but they roll, unfocused and drowning in pain. He makes a sound, wet and pitiful, choking on his own blood.

I step back. You’re here. You’re in control.

“Did you know that pigs will eat anything?” I ask softly. “Bones. Flesh. Even hair. You probably think I’m bluffing. That I’m trying to scare you, the way you used to scare me. I didn’t believe it either, at first,” I add. “But I believe it now. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard their teeth crunch through bone like it’s nothing but stale bread.”

Kerr slumps forward, a ragged moan caught in his throat. His body slackens, the muscle gone from his limbs, but his eyes remain wide, rolling toward me in raw, unfiltered terror. He’s in there. Still inside. I can feel it.

I unlock the restraints at his feet, then his arms, though I leave his wrists bound, habit more than necessity now. He isn’t a threat anymore. He’s just a sack of bones and skin.

Grabbing the wheelbarrow from the corner, I tilt the chair and his dead weight into it. He lands with a sickening thud, limbs folding like discarded laundry, his head snapping sideways. A trail of pink drool leaks from his open mouth.

“Easy there,” I mutter, gripping the handles. “Don’t go dying on me just yet.”