Then on to the next cell.
The quick subdue, a crack of the neck. And then the fun resumes, coated in the clogging tang of coppery blood. Thick in the air it clings to the back of his throat, he is drinking the scentin. A flavoursome odourthat leaves a coppery residue in his lungs.
A one, two, three, four.
The counting is necessary. Each cut is given to Satan.
He has four bodies to lay waste to, to carve his artistry into the sacrificial tapestry. The Whytesgang members will be no more. Unfortunately, Reni and Zidie are safe for now, he may need them so he’ll allow them to live. At least until he is sure they are of no use. It never hurts to have some contingency plans laid out.
By the end of these four sacrifices he will give Satan six hundred and sixty-six cuts. The three sixes. All for the true deity. The true ruler. Just like the tattooed numbers on the inside of each wrist, black inked sixes now honoured by blood.
Hail Satan.
Cut. Cut. Cut. He pinches two razors, one in each hand, and dances them over this sacrifice’s skin. No shirt in the way. A large expanse of exposed skin.
A one, two, three, four. Cut here. Cut there. Dig the razor in deep. Through flesh they go, creating sizable holes one could sink a fist into and pull out whatever slimy interior organ they grab first.
Sinn'ous pauses, head tilting, he watches the wounds seeping blood. Both razors clink as they touch the blood slicked ground. He digs his fingers into one of the deeper cuts by the right ribs, and pulls it apart, using more strength than he would have thought. In all his kills this will be a first, he’s never done what he is about to do. He digs his hand inside, going under the ribcage. It takes a few tugged out organs to find the one he wants. He tries to pull the heart out from behind its bone cage, but has to dig the razor in and cut it from the arteries. It pops free with an audible squelch, and he holds the human heart in his palm.
He ponders the decent heft and size. This is his first time holding a human heart. It’s different. Neither satisfactory nor inadequate.
The razors tip presses into the meaty organ, pressure is required to puncture and drag down. Opening the organ from proverbial stern to bow. A long line right down the middle splitting it open.
He makes a noise of thought. Then carelessly flips it over his shoulder, done with the lifeless organ. He goes back to cutting the cooling body. A leg. A face. A neck.
Cut.
Cut.
Cut.
And on to the next cell.
He strikes this time by covering the mouth and slitting the throat. Pinning the flailing body while it does its thing to fight for its life. A useless endeavour. His hand easily silences the muffled cries for help. It takes no time at all for his sacrifice to go still.
Another dead. Another sacrifice.
Hail Satan.
And so it begins again. A one, two, three, four. The dance of broken skin and sharp steel. Swirling and twirling.
Blood runs wild. Freed to slosh onto the bunk, then onto the floor. He cuts blindly while his eyes stay fixated on the floor and its growing river of blood reaching out for the drains by the cell’s centre.
All the while he continues to count each slice, adding up to the three sixes. And the red river continues. Glugging and rolling thickly over the grimy floor. All manner of dust particles, and hair, and dead insects, and hair that’s suspiciously rodent. All being swallowed by the thick red river.
And on to the last cell.
This sacrifice is awake and alert. Eyes wide to all of Sinn'ous’s blood dripping glory.
“What the fuck.” Is the breathy whimper released from his sacrifice’s vocal cords.
Sinn'ous can feel his own grin, wide and true, cracking his lips, baring his teeth to the room. Longer strands of his blood-soaked hair are falling into his eyes, he drags a hand over the shorter sides, the slick feel of blood could be from his hair or his hands.
“Your death can be fast, if you do not scream. A broken neck, and it will be over.”
The Whytes gang member’s eyes frantically bounce all over Sinn'ous and every ounce of blood coating his body, then out into the dimly lit corridor. Then back to the dripping red puddling under Sinn'ous’s prison shoes, footsteps marking his path into the micro sized room.
A shuddering resigned breath catches in the sacrifice’s throat, coming out in a coughed squeak. Then he turns and faces the wall.
