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“Baby, I can promise you that you won’t survive a girl like me.”
Chapter 14
I do not believe in the immorality of the individual, and I consider ethics to be an exclusively human concern without any superhuman authority behind it.
—Albert Einstein
LANA
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. And if that mocking bird don’t sing, Momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”
The song flows through the underground cellar, and I walk toward the side as Lawrence slowly rouses from his unconscious state. I watch with rapt fascination from the shadows as a myriad of emotions flicker across his face in sequence.
Confusion. Surprise. Recognition. And my favorite—panic.
He struggles against the chains that are holding his hands and arms out wide, keeping him bound and suspended midair. It’s a lovely position to die in. It also leaves you feeling weak and defenseless to be spread out and immobile.
I should know.
The song changes, and “Ring Around the Rosy” starts playing in that creepy kid voice it’s in. I love fucking with their heads.
“Who the fuck are you!?” he shouts, struggling as I remain tucked in the dark corner. The light overhead casts a circular glow beneath it, illuminating him and the chains dangling loosely in front of him as I await our second prisoner’s arrival.
As soon as I got him to my car, I slammed his head into the side door twice, making sure he was out cold before tossing his heavy ass into my car. He’s solid muscle, and I didn’t plan on him being quite so heavy as dead weight.
The struggle was worth it.
The bruises are forming nicely around his eyes and forehead. I’m sure the concussion kept him out longer than a usual cold-cock.
“Where are you? Where the fuck am I?” he barks, struggling in vain, making the chains rattle their unrelenting warning.
He jerks his head from side to side, trying to see something other than the light above him. It’s just four stone walls in a semi-large square of a cellar. It’s every creepy nightmare there is.
I should have started finding creepier places to kill them long ago, because I love the way his body is seizing in terror just from the surroundings.
I’m dressed in all black now. The red lipstick is gone, along with the blonde wig I was donning. The heels have been traded in for boots—the men’s boots I wear with the special toe-piece Jake designed for me to leave behind heel-to-toe impressions.
My backpack isn’t on, but it’s not necessary for this part, since there’s no dirt around. The stone floor under my feet will soon be painted with two shades of red. Then I’ll paint all four walls.
“Someone fucking answer me! Help!” he roars, only to be met with silence. Tyler’s old home is in the middle of nowhere. These are the easy kills. Lawrence would have been difficult to kill in his apartment that he shares with a roommate.
Tyler’s wife is out of town right now, after having a fight over the text messages I helped her stumble upon—anonymously of course. Tyler thinks Denise got jealous and sabotaged him. His wife thinks he’s a dick weasel—her words—and left in a fit of rage.
I’m currently tracking her cell phone with the clone phone I had made of Tyler’s.
Lawrence continues to scream and shout as “The Wheels on the Bus” plays now, drowning out most of his pleads.
His voice is almost hoarse a few hours later when he finally pisses on himself, losing his bladder. It’s step one of humiliation. It’s step one of stripping their dignity. They always piss and shit themselves.
A smile curves my lips.
He curses as the first tear falls from his eye. He’s trussed up and strung out, unable to wipe it away. I want all his tears. I want all his misery and terror.
I want him degraded to the point he has nothing but indignation and humiliation left. Then I want his screams.
Just an hour after that, he breaks, sobbing fiercely as he loses control of his bladder again. His jeans darken, and the smell wafts over me. It’s the smell of revenge. Well, it’s the smell of piss, but you get the idea.
He’s shirtless, and I can see the goosebumps that have pebbled on his skin from the cold. The colder the room, the worse the pain is when the strikes are received.
