“Beautiful,” I whispered.
He was sobbing now, the kind of sound that wasn’t even sound anymore – just broken breath and salt and the inevitability of what was coming.
I ignored it. He wasn’t the point. The pain was.
I made another line. Then another. Symmetrical. Intentional. Crisscrossing patterns like brush strokes across a canvas. I didn’t rush. Each incision deserved my full attention.
“You’re better than the last one,” I said conversationally. “He screamed too soon. Fell apart before I was halfway through. No sense of dignity.”
The scalpel dipped again. A deeper cut this time, curved and looping.
A spiral.
Art should always have a centre.
His scream finally came – rasping and hoarse, like something torn from his soul. I closed my eyes and savoured it, the sound vibrating in the air around us like applause.
“You hear that?” I breathed, smiling as I leaned over him, blood soaking the gloves I never bothered to replace. “That’s the sound of purpose.”
I paused, admiring my work. The pattern was taking shape now, glistening red against ruined skin.
“People don’t understand,” I said softly. “They think pain is destruction. But it’s not. It’s truth. It’s creation. And tonight—” I leaned in, pressing a kiss to the centre of his chest, right where the cuts converged “—you’re my masterpiece.”
His sobs broke the silence again, wet and desperate, and I tilted my head, feigning sympathy.
“Aww,” I crooned, lips curving into something too soft to be kind. “Is the big strong man gonna cry?”
I leaned down, pressing the blood-slick scalpel to his cheek – not cutting, just…letting him feel the threat like breath against a bruise.
“You poor thing,” I whispered, brushing a gloved knuckle under his chin. “I bet you thought you were safe when I smiled at you, didn’t you? Bet you thought I was just a harmless little thing. Pretty. Sweet.”
I widened my eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Oops.”
His good eye rolled toward the ceiling like prayer might save him.
I giggled.
The sound started small – just a little trill in the back of my throat – but it grew as I stepped back, hand to my chest, absolutely delighted by the pathetic look on his face.
That laugh.
High-pitched, shrill, cascading up and up like birdsong laced with madness. The kind of sound that stuck to the inside of your skull like gum and made men flinch even in daylight.
They called me Kookaburra after the first time they heard it – when they found the one in the motel room with his hands stitched where his mouth should be. It had echoed off the walls like a lullaby gone wrong.
“Don’t look so scared,” I said, catching my breath, voice syrup-sweet now. “I only hurt people who deserve it. Which, lucky you…is all of you.”
I set the scalpel down with a gentle clink and picked up a different tool – a thin, curved hook, perfect for slipping under skin.
His gaze followed it, wide and wet, and I beamed like we were sharing a secret.
“You know what I love most?” I whispered, leaning close enough for him to feel the warmth of my breath. “Not the cutting. Not even the screaming.”
I brought the hook to his shoulder, slowly working it beneath the skin like threading ribbon through silk. He choked on a cry, back arching again – but I pressed down with my free hand, keeping him still.
“No, sweetheart,” I purred, “what I really love…is the moment you realise I’m never going to stop.”
His scream this time was full-bodied – pure panic laced with disbelief, like his mind had finally caught up to what his body already knew.
