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I unroll my large leather surprise, gliding my fingers over the collection of shining knives. They’re truly beautiful when they’re clean, almost glistening under the overhead light, reflecting a blurry image back to me.
“Who sent you?” I inquire as I select my first blade.
“Fuck you.”
“Why were you following me?”
“Fu—”
I drag the thin blade across his chest, cutting his shirt open and drawing a line of blood. “Don’t say fuck you again.”
He flinches but doesn’t scream. Which is fine. I tear the rest of his shirt away, studying his skin as I pick my next spot.
“I’m in no mood to be patient,” I explain, sliding the knife into his stomach. “It’s been a long week, and your sloppy behavior has really tipped me over the edge.”
He grunts.
“Did you see a tattoo on his knuckle?” I ask Lou.
“No, just the ones on his arms,” my cousin answers, hands tucked into his pockets as he watches me. “But I didn’t look.”
“So maybe you’re from the Maldonado Cartel…” I muse, smirking as I swap my thin blade for something bigger. “Tell me who sent you.”
Sweat beads on his forehead as he pants, “Make me.”
“I would love nothing more,” I purr.
I take two hours, but I enjoy every single second of it. Torture can brighten even the gloomiest of days…
My dad taught me that.
Aloysius stands stoic at the door, observing the lesson before him. If he had paper, I dare say he would take notes. He was never the studious type in school, but Lou barely blinks as he watches me work.
I slash at the unnamed stalked-turned-captive eighty-six times before I lose count again. He passes out quite a bit, but smelling salts work wonders.
The usual places to stab are the meaty pieces of flesh, though I prefer the thinner areas, where I can slide the knife under the skin, separating the muscle from bone. Like just under the collarbones or across the shins.
He does a ton of screaming after the first twenty minutes.
Now, he’s naked, still hung from the ceiling by the skin of his back. The metal bits pull at his flesh, stretching until I’m sure they’ll soon rip. I’ve added two more hooks, just in case... But so far, they’re holding up.
I’m pleasantly surprised with how much I’m enjoying this. Not the torture part; the depraved side of me always loves the blood-letting… It’s the suspension part I’m really into. I think I’m going to order better quality products and research proper techniques. Or I’ll just ask Camille. She’s a tattoo artist who dabbles in piercings, so she’ll know something helpful.
As the captive’s voice cracks, I rub at my ear, smearing blood across my cheek.
“Who sent you?” I ask, sounding like a broken record.
“Estrada,” he cries.
He’s finally reached the point where he knows he won’t live much longer. His death is inevitable. We all know this. And since he’s so aware of it, he’s lost his dignity and loyalty, unable to meet the reaper quietly.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I tilt his head up, the tip of my blade under his chin. “Where is your mark?”
“Don’t have one yet.”
