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Red’s eyes start flickering in panic. Two drops of saline splash over his retinas, and his entire, strapped down body flinches.
“Ah,” Fyre murmurs, sliding an arm around my shoulders and drawing me closer. “There it is.”
Red gurgles frantically. His always-open eyes dart this way and that, searching for the chart on the standing pole Andy uses to communicate with him.
But we move it out of sight after she leaves.
We don’t need to communicate with Red. We revel in his agonized screams.
“We’ll have to ask her to lower the dosage,” I tell Fyre as Red’s claw-like hands start twitching wildly. “He’s usually passed out from the pain by now.”
“You’re right,” Fyre says, giving me a little squeeze. “And we’ve got a lot to do today. Can’t sit around all morning waiting for this useless pile of shit to do his little dance.”
Red starts to scream. It’s not particularly loud. Every sound he makes has to escape through the quarter-inch gap between his teeth. That’s simply the shape the fire fused his face into. Andy talks about skin grafts and physiotherapy and a bunch of nonsense like that, but we’re happy with him just the way he is. A shell of his former self, literally.
“Aw, look,” I say, pointing down the table. “His pathetic little dick is flopping around like a teeny-weeny goldfish.”
Red starts to gibber. His eyes take on a vague, unfocused look as they roll in their sockets. Fyre reaches up and turns on the overhead lamp. Red’s pupils constrict to tiny points, and then flood his irises again.
“Ooh, can I bring the photo?” I slap Fyre’s arm. “Please, please, please!”
He chuckles quietly at me, flashing the light a few times in Red’s face as he turns to study me. “Fuck, it turns me on when you’re being sadistic.”
I widen my eyes, throwing a meaningful glance Red’s way.
Fyre laughs. “I know, I know. Let’s not give his tiny little goldfish dick an excuse to get hard.”
“Semi hard,” I insist, giving Red a sad little smile. “Red can’t get it up anymore, can he?”
Red pretends not to hear us, but I know he’s taking this all in. As excruciating as the pain is becoming, we know when he checks out. And we’ve still got a good few minutes before that happens.
“The photo!” I yank on the sleeve of Fyre’s trench coat. He’s dressed as if he was about to head out the door. We’ve got a busy day, today, and he’s probably running a few last-minute errands before we leave together in the van.
Arrow starts weaving between us, Red’s tormented cries making her excited. I swear she enjoys hearing him scream as much as we do.
Sadistic little fur-baby.
“Okay, fine,” Fyre says with utter reluctance. “But I have to leave in a minute, so make it quick.”
I throw out my arms, grinning like an idiot as I race to the corner where we keep some extra equipment. Andy’s pain chart is there, but I shove it aside and grab another, similar pole on wheels. It squeaks as I rush it over, and I swear if Red could turn his head he’d be staring over here in horror.
“Hey, Red!” I call in a sing-song voice. “Look what I found!”
Red’s eyes flicker, but he stares straight up as he shrieks hoarsely in agony.
“Aw, come on,” I tell him, pulling a sulky mouth. “Youlovethis guy!”
The photo was Fyre’s idea. After everything had settled down and we were sure Red wasn’t going to peg, we had a bottle of wine and discussed just how to torture the sick fuck. Fyre told me he was pretty sure Red was a narcissistic psychopath, paired with a nasty streak of sexual sadism. Add to that some pedophilia, perhaps even necrophilia, and we realized we were facing one of Satan’s spawn.
What better way to torture someone like him than to remind him that he wasn’t invincible, or superhuman…or even as good-looking as he used to be? Red is in his early fifties, and from the immaculate way he groomed himself, Fyre knew he was egotistical to the nth degree.
He found a photo of Red when the man was twenty-five. Prime of his life. I look at it now, and twitch my mouth in appreciation. He could have been an actor.
“Wow,” I say, adjusting the pole and then pulling out the lever on the side so that the photo is positioned right in front of Red’s face.
He could still look away, of course…but maybe he can’t. Because he never does. Red’s shrieks don’t stop—right now he might not be physically able to silence himself—but his eyes lock onto that photo with a palpable desperation. And then the tears start leaking from his exposed eyeballs. Andy explained the phenomena—while the flames ate away his eyelids, his tear ducts had somehow remained intact. They could even still have lubricated his eyes…but without lids, that moisture had no way of coating the entire eyeball.
Fyre squeezes my hand as we watch Red gazing at his former self. The man he once was, but will never again be. It’s perfect, really. It reminds him just how high he’d risen before we dragged him into the depths of hell. This mental torture, multiplied with the excruciating pain he feels every waking moment of his life, is a small recompense for all the suffering he caused in the world.
