“Go ahead, Aaron. Just something simple to start. I want to send our President a nice little video greeting.”
Cortéz turns his camera toward Knuckles’ broken body.
“Smile, biker. Tell your President you miss him.”
Knuckles collapses fully…face pressed to the bloody floor, breath rattling, strength gone. Cortéz circles him slowly, recording every second of it like he’s filming a nature documentary.
I try to scream, but Aaron is already wrapping duct tape around my mouth…around my entire head…and with each tight pass, the tape presses me back against the chair until I’m pinned completely still.
“I don’t like sound,” Aaron says conversationally, like we’re discussing the weather. “It’s silly to ask you not to scream while I’m cutting into you, so this helps.”
He pats my cheek with the back of his fingers.
The casualness makes me want to vomit.
Cortéz jerks his chin toward the man by the door. “Come watch the biker. He won’t be much trouble, but I’d hate for him to interrupt Aaron’s work.”
The guard moves without question, stopping next to Knuckles’ head.
Knuckles' pain-clouded eyes find me. Blood is smeared across his lips. His chest rises and falls in shallow, failing jerks.
But behind all of that?
Calm. Acceptance. Peace.
He’s dying. Heknowshe’s dying.
He’s just holding on for me.
I try to smile. To tell him I understand, to tell him it’s okay, to tell him I’m grateful he didn’t die alone earlier and leave me here with strangers…but the tape holds my face immobile against the chair.
So I say it with my eyes instead, hoping he understands.
“Should’ve stripped him first,” Aaron mutters, annoyed. “Now I’ll have to cut through the clothes, and that’s just a waste of my time.”
“Start with his face,” Cortéz sighs, as if he’s asking someone to dust a shelf.
“Hmm,” Aaron hums. “Not a bad idea. Alright, hold still, toy.”
Knuckles told me not to fight.
So when Aaron dragged me to the chair, I didn’t fight.
When the chains wrapped around my torso, I didn’t fight.
When duct tape pinned my skull to the metal frame, I didn’t fight.
But when the scalpel…the actual medical grade scalpel…comes toward my face?
I can’t help but fight. I’ve never been more scared in my life.
My body jerks against the restraints, metal rattling violently as I twist, pull, and slam my heels into the floor. Nothing moves. Not the chains. Not the tape. Not even the damn chair. It’s bolted into the concrete.
The only things I can move are my hands. Useless without the use of my arms.
My skin burns as the blade slides against my forehead.
“Nice,” Cortéz laughs, holding his phone inches from my face. “The red shows up beautifully on camera.”
