Page 9
“Was it just me, Virgil?” My voice hardens, cutting through the stale air. “Or did your filthy hands find other girls, too? Did you stop women in the aisles of your store, offer them your ‘help,’ only to make them regret it later?”
His eyes dart toward the door, a feeble attempt to escape what I’ve just said. But there’s nowhere for him to go.
“I think it’s time you answer me.”
His lips part, cracked and dry, and a weak cough rasps from his throat. “P-please,” he croaks, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I d-don’t…”
“Don’t what?” I snap, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at me. “Don’t remember? Don’t care? Or is it that you don’t regret it?”
Tears well in his eyes, pooling in the hollowed sockets. “I never…”
“Don’t lie to me!” The scalpel trembles in my hand, the tip pressing harder against his cheek. A bead of blood wells up, crimson against his pale skin. “Did you do to anyone else what you did to me? Did you?”
His breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, his body sagging against the restraints. “Just you.” His words crumble into a broken sob.
The sound is familiar and rehearsed. I push the blade deeper, the steel biting into him. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Virgil.” My voice drops, ice threading through each word.
His sobs intensify, but I don’t care. I lean in closer, the scent of blood sharp in the confined space. “My father. His friends. Your friends. All of you. Was it just you, or are there more like you? Are there more monsters hiding behind God’s name?” The words spill out, dark and frenzied.
His eyes squeeze shut, tears streaking down his bruised face. “N… No,” he whispers, his voice trembling.
“Bullshit.” The word escapes me before I can stop it, and I step back, the scalpel shaking in my hand.
What if he’s lying? The thought digs deep, twisting like a blade. But then, what if he isn’t? Either answer feels like poison. If I was the only one, why doesn’t that feel like relief? Why does it make me feel even more hollow?
He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, only ragged, empty breaths.
“If it was just me, you should have chosen someone else,” I say finally, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “You should’ve chosen anyone else.”
I start with his left pinky finger.
The first incision is clean, a precise cut through the skin and down to the bone. Blood wells instantly, dark and sluggish, but I’m prepared for that. A tourniquet tied tightly around his wrist ensures the bleeding remains controlled, his hand already pale and bloodless. I peel back the skin methodically, exposing the tendons beneath, their silvery strands gleaming under the harsh light.
His moan bubbles up weakly, a gurgling sound that barely escapes his throat. He’s trying to scream. I smile faintly, my hands steady as I sever the joint. The finger comes free with a wet snap, and I drop it into the stainless-steel tray beside me.
“One down,” I murmur. “Nine to go.”
By the time I’ve removed three fingers, he’s trembling violently despite the sedatives. The sweat pouring off his body soaks the chair, and his breathing is shallow and ragged. I pause, retrieving a stethoscope from the tray. The cool metal presses against his chest, just above the sternum.
“Hmm,” I mutter. “A little tachycardic, but nothing concerning yet. You’re stronger than I thought.”
His eyes roll toward me, desperation leaking from every pore. But I see something else there, too, confusion. He still doesn’t understand why. Why him? Why this?
“You’ve hurt people, Virgil,” I say, pulling the stethoscope away. “You’ve done it with a smile on your face and a Bible in your hand. How many women did you corner in the aisles of your store? How many young girls did you ‘comfort’ with that hand I’m about to take? Did you think they’d never speak? That no one would listen? Are you that full of yourself that you figured you’d never have to pay for the pain you caused?”
I set the scalpel down and grab the bone saw from the tray, its teeth catching the light from overhead. This is going to take some effort, and the thin blade of the scalpel just won’t do.
His wide eyes follow as I lower saw to his wrist.
The blade bites into the bone with a jarring grind, the sound shattering the shed’s heavy stillness like a guttural scream. I press harder, the rhythmic sawing creating a grotesque harmony with his muffled cries. The bone gives way eventually, snapping with a sharp crack that echoes like a gunshot. Blood spurts briefly before I cauterize the stump with a heated pen, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. He passes out then, his head lolling to the side.
When he comes to, I’m working on his leg. A tourniquet is cinched tight around his thigh, the flesh above it swollen and pale. Blood pools sluggishly beneath the stump I’ve carved out, the flow staunched but ever threatening. The tibia resists me, stubborn as a stone, but I’ve always enjoyed a challenge. My grip on the saw is firm and steady, each pull purposeful. Men have been amputating limbs for centuries, on battlefields, in makeshift hospitals, and now here I am, continuing the tradition in my own kind of war.
His body jerks weakly, a futile, pitiful attempt to escape the restraints. It’s almost laughable, the way he struggles, like a soldier grasping at a weapon long since pried from his hands.
“Oh, you’re awake again,” I say, not looking up. “Perfect timing. I was just about to start on something a little… different.” My eyes fall between his legs.
His eyes widen, and I see the glimmer of understanding at last. The realization of what’s coming.
