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“I’m about to start taking body parts,” he informs the man sweetly, and when I get a glance at his face, I see nothing except happy amusement there. Like he’s playing a video game that hereallyenjoys but doesn’t get to indulge in often enough.
I suppose that, in some ways, cutting someone up could be considered entertainment.
The man spits something that sounds a lot like fuck you, and Ezra’s reaction is too fast for me to see coming.
Suddenly the man is on his side, his voice rising, and Ezra reaches for his cuffed hands that he tries to pull away. The knife comes down; there’s a brief pause, then the manscreamsas suddenly two of his fingers hit the floor, trailing blood as they roll in a cartoon-ish fashion toward Ashe’s boots.
I expect my stomach to revolt. I wait, sure that nausea is going to crawl up my throat like fingers tapping against my insides. My own fingers curl tighter, and I’m sure that I’ll feel the overwhelming flood of spit that fills my mouth whenever I’m going to vomit.
But I don’t.
I just feel strange, standing there and watching a man’s fingers come to rest on the floor while he screams out a symphony of agonized shrieks and cries.
It must really hurt to get your fingers chopped off, judging by his reaction.
“If you continue to refuse to answer our questions, you’re going to run out of fingers,” Ezra tells him blithely, grabbing one wrist and shoving the knife between parted digits. He works methodically, and as I watch, another finger separates from the man, joining its fellows on the floor before Ashe kicks them aside like trash.
But still, I only watch with open-mouthed fascination, unable to tear my gaze away or feel anything other thaninterest.
God, maybe I really am more fucked up than I thought I was. It won’t surprise me if that’s the case. Not more than a little stirring of shock, anyway, and I can’t even bring myself to hope the guy won’t lose any more fingers.
No, because I have something much more worrisome on my mind.
If they can do this so easily, soreadily, to this man, what’s to stop them from deciding to do it tome?
I’m so caught up in my sudden fear for myself that I almost miss Ezra rolling the man and returning him to his back. He says something, responding to a question that I didn’t get to hear, and as I watch, Ezra smiles sweetly at him and puts the knife to his throat. This time he doesn’t scream, or cry, or beg. Resignation and pain glitter in his eyes, though before I can process more than that, the blade slides across the flesh, parting it like it’s made of tissue paper.
Blood runs in rivulets to the floor around the thrashing man, and Ezra gets to his feet to stay clear of him while Ashe justwatches.
“That’s not anything we didn’t know,” Ashe murmurs, arms still folded over his chest as the man’s thrashing grows weaker. “You could’ve been meaner since he wasn’t very helpful.”
The little psychopath shrugs and tilts his head to the side, a coy smile crossing his lips. “I didn’t want to be that gruesome,” he admits quietly. “Since, you know…” he trails off, and I can’t help but wonder what in the world he means by that.
‘You know’what?
Something rustles behind me once more in the trees, and this time I’m a little bit slower in turning.
Only belatedly, when my eyes land on the figure leaning against the closest oak, do I realize I should’ve been faster.
