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His arms are straining against the chains holding his hands above his head, his legs barely holding him up as his body quivers with fear. The spiked shackles are biting into his skin, causing blood to trickle down his exposed body, only stopping to soak into the waistband of his jeans.
Blais methodically glides a large metal knife across Martinez’s abdomen, just slicing enough layers of skin to hurt, but keeping him conscious while he begs us to stop. I don’t know how Blais does it; he’s an expert with a knife, and has a weirdly gentle touch when he needs to. If I tried to do what he just did, Martinez’s guts would be on the floor.
Martinez begs Blais to stop, his voice cracking with every word he says, making Blais drive the knife deeper out of irritation.
Blais slowly licks the knife coated with blood, reveling in the metallic taste. Jake’s eyes bug out of his head as he watches Blais’ movements. Disgust riddles his face, but it’s quickly replaced with anguish as Blais leisurely drives the knife into his stomach right through the belly button.
“Fuck! Jesus, man stop. Please.”
Pathetic.
He’s been conscious for no more than five minutes and is already screaming like a little bitch. I wonder if he showed mercy to Grace Adams, the seventeen-year-old girl he raped and left for dead in an alleyway. Did he stop when she screamed and pleaded with him to save her from the misery he caused? I wonder if he still thinks about the bribes he and his father gave in order for the police and the judicial system to turn a blind eye, not finding enough evidence to convict him of dumping that poor girl’s barely breathing body off in the dark, dirty alley.
That’s the thing about every one of these assholes. They always think they’reuntouchable. That the money lining their greedy, dirty pockets will be able to save them anytime they fuck up again. They think it makes them indestructible. Unfortunately, for Jake Martinez, he won’t be walking away free of the consequences this time.
This time, he will pay with blood instead of money.
His daddy’s money can’t save him now.
“Ahh, boys, what do you say we bring our friend down and give him a little rest?” Blais says with malice lacing his voice. He’s playing with Martinez, trying to throw him off-kilter.
“R-really?” Martinez’s skeptical voice is barely audible over his continued sobbing, feeling like this is another trap.
Of course it is. Blais likes to fuck with people’s minds just as much as he likes playing with blood.Theon moves closer to the man, lowering the chains as Blais grabs a solid metal chair for Martinez to plop his ass into. He drops down roughly, hissing when the cuts across his abdomen roll.
Theon grabs the man’s arms, placing them in the metal cuffs attached to the arms of the chair, keeping his hands in place. He then moves to Martinez’s ankles, strapping them in place. Although Martinez tries to fight, his exhausted body is no match for Theon’s strength.
“Of course. Take some time, maybe think about the reasons why you're here. See if there’s anything you’d like to tell us.” Blais’ evil grin stretches his face as he picks up a heavy, metal chain, wrapping it around Martinez’s thigh tightly, leaving the ends hanging loosely over the sides.
“Did you know there are two hundred and six bones in the human body?” Blais asks nonchalantly, moving to bring the tray of weapons closer, thoughtfully looking over them while thinking about whatever he has planned.
Theon and I share a curious look, but we know better than to disrupt Blais when he’s in his element.
“I’ve always been told the femur hurts the worst to break. It’s the longest and strongest bone in the body, but the moment it snaps”—Blais holds his hands up, acting like he’s snapping a twig in half—“excruciating pain erupts so hard you feel it everywhere…or so I’ve been told.” His snarl barely contains the depravity, attempting to escape him.
He picks up a long metal hammer, looking at it intently. “But you want to know what I’ve always thought would almost be as excruciating?” His voice trails, taunting Martinez with every word he utters.
“W-what are you going to do?” Martinez wails, struggling against the binds on his arms and legs.
“Theon, would you please flatten our guest’s hands for me.” Theon grunts at Blais’ demand, but grabs onto Martinez’s hand, flattening it against the metal arm of the chair.
Martinez tries to squirm away, but with Theon’s strength, it’s no use. I step forward, moving beside them, resting my hands on Martinez’s shoulder to let him know he’s not going anywhere.
“Sometimes, the things that cause the most amount of pain aren’t from big injuries like chopping off a leg or a hand…” Blais looks at him intently. “…but the smaller things like stubbing a toe, breaking a finger. The pain that’s nagging, irritating, something you feel every time you move.” I love Blais, but even I’m getting impatient for him to torture this man.
“I guess we’ll test that theory out right now.” Blais quickly grabs tiny—almost minuscule—nails off the metal tray, inspecting it, before he moves it directly under Martinez’s nail of his middle finger.
“No, no, please don’t. Stop.” Martinez tries to curl his fingers, but Theon holds them in place.
“Did you stop when Grace Adams asked you to?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martinez pleads, putting on an innocent act.
“Wrong answer.” Blais takes the hammer, slamming it into the small nail, embedding it right under Martinez’s fingernail.
“Fuck! Stop, please.” He’s screaming, looking at the small metal object protruding out of his finger.
“Did you give her any consideration when you were ruining her life, making her look like a liar? Did you feel satisfied when she begged for people to believe her, but they took your side instead? I bet you didn’t expect her to live, did you?”
