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Lunging forward, I slide the knife between his ribs and bask in his deep scream.
Grabbing the rag I use as a gag, I make quick work of shoving it into his mouth. He’s ruining the music.
Gripping my hand around his jaw, I squeeze hard, making it uncomfortable for him.
“Just take your punishment, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
I guess I wouldn’t believe that shit if someone told me the same. Oh well. I tried to help him.
Picking the blade back up, I wipe his blood off on his boxers, and before he can blink, I slash his cheek open. It’s not too deep, but it’s deep enough for him to feel the excruciating pain I’ve inflicted, and it’ll leave a nice scar. When I’m paid to hurt someone, I like to leave a mark on them that will be permanently seen. I cross the kitchen, careful not to touch anything, and grab the saltshaker. I’ll have to remember to take it with me. Flicking the top off, I pour what’s left into the palm of my hand and smile when he fights against his restraints. He knows what’s coming.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood tonight,” I say, moving closer to him. “I’m meeting the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen tomorrow, and my head isn’t quite fully here with you. See, I can’t stop thinking about her. Even now, when I’m busy with you, she’s the one filling my head. I’m wondering if she’s sleeping, and if she is, then how does she look as she sleeps? Is she awake? If so, why can’t she sleep? Don’t you worry, though. I’m not going to mess up my job, but while I’d usually take the night to send the message my client wants sent, I’m going to speed things up.”
In the next breath, I close the distance between us and smother the salt into the wound on his cheek. His chest heaves around his muffled screams, and I step back and watch, soaking in the pleasure his pain gives me.
People assume I’m named Psycho because I like inflicting pain and feel nothing. They’re wrong. Very fucking wrong. I’m named Psycho because I enjoy seeing the pain I inflict. When I was a boy and would get into fights, I always took it too far, and the kids would call me a psycho. After so long, the nickname stuck, and that’s what I was called. The kids on our estate never wanted to fight me, and my reputation was born. I wouldn’t say I’m a psychopath, per se. I do feel things on occasion, like with Evie. One sighting of her and she has me feeling all kinds of shit I haven’t felt in a long time.
The prick tied to the chair before me tries to say something around his gag, and for once, I pull it out and let him say his piece.
“No more,” he pleads, dribble hanging from his bottom lip.
“But we’ve only just begun,” I point out. “How am I supposed to make you see the error of your ways if I leave now?”
“Please, I see them. I see it all.”
Wagging my finger, I shake my head. “I don’t think you do. I think you’re telling me what you think I want to hear.”
“No, I swear, I’m not.”
“Oh, you swear?” I chuckle. “Okay, then, I believe you now. Let me just pack my shit up and I’ll leave you to your night.”
The fucker literally sighs with relief. What a fucking bellend to believe me.
Walking over to my bag, I dig around and pull out the hammer. My client doesn’t want him to walk again, and so it shall be done.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll leave, but before I go, I have to bust your kneecaps. I’ll let you choose which one goes first. How’s that?”
He violently shakes his head, but I’m already stepping back and flexing the hammer in my grip.
“You choosing, or shall I?” I quip, but he says nothing intelligible. Shrugging, I hold the hammer out and point to each knee as I say, “Ip, dip, do, out goes you.”
It’s an old childhood way of doing it, but no less effective. Sizing up the right knee, I swing the hammer up over my head and grin as I swing it down on the top of his kneecap and bounce on my toes as he drowns out the music with his cries. Keeping the momentum going, I raise the hammer over my head again and swing it down onto his left knee. The bottom half of his legs go slack, and his feet twitch.
“See? It wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask, digging the head of the hammer into the bloodied and broken bone mess that used to be his kneecap.
“The upside is you don’t have to walk anymore. The downside, though, is that you can’t walk anymore.”
I’m talking for the hell of it, but he’s not listening. He can’t. All he feels, hears, and tastes is the pain shooting around his body like fucking lightning bolts.
“I made you a deal, and I stick to my word, so I’ll leave you now. I wish you well in life. Open your mouth about any of this, and you will see me again. There’s nowhere I won’t find you, and no one can stop me from getting to you.”
Collecting my tools, I run them under the tap at the sink and use his tea towel to dry them off. I’ll clean them properly later.
With this job done, I can focus fully on Evie. Only six hours to go.
I rap my knuckles on Evie’s front door and step back. It’s just after nine, and I’m told that’s an acceptable time to knock at someone’s door.
If I were normal, I’d be nervous. But I’m not. She opens the door and clutches the edge, half hiding herself from me. My blood is rushing through me, feeling like it’s on fire at the partial view of her.
