He used to hum when he worked.
I was small enough then to fit in the space beneath the stairs, knees to chest, chin resting on the banister rail. The air was thick with the copper tang that always seemed to cling to him when he came home late. I didn’t know what it was back then. Not really. But I liked the smell. It meant he was here.
The man on the chair wasn’t supposed to be.
He was tied up – wrists bound, head lolling to one side – breathing in wet, rattly little gasps. There was a bag on thefloor beside him, one of those thick black ones you buy when you don’t plan to keep anything.
The man who’d brought him there crouched in front of him. Calm. Focused. Hands steady. He looked the way other men looked fixing cars or mending fences. Methodical. Purposeful. He was good at that – making horror look like routine.
“You see,” he said, though I don’t think he knew I was watching. His voice carried, smooth and patient, the way someone sounds when they’ve already decided how a story ends. “Pain’s a mirror. It shows you who people really are. Strip away comfort, you find truth.”
He pressed the blade against the bound man’s cheek. Not hard. Just enough for the skin to dimple – a tiny white crescent before it flooded with red.
The man whimpered – that soft, broken sound that still makes my stomach twist.
Not from fear. From memory.
“Please,” the man in the chair croaked. The other smiled.
That smile wasn’t cruel.
That’s the worst part. It was gentle. Almost loving. Like he was proud.
He cut once. Quick. Efficient.
The kind of cut that doesn’t kill but teaches.
“Always listen,” he said softly, wiping the blade on a rag. “They’ll tell you what they are if you make them bleed the right way.”
The man started crying then – messy, snot and spit, trying to talk through it. I think he was apologising. I think he thought that would help.
But the one with the knife didn’t like apologies. He said they were just noise from people who got caught.
When it was over, the humming started again.
Something slow, familiar.
I realised it was a nursery rhyme – one I used to know the words to.
He uncoiled the rope, wiped down the blade again, and turned toward the stairs.
I remember freezing, thinking he’d be angry that I’d seen.
But he didn’t look surprised.
He crouched, eyes level with mine in the dim light.
There was blood on his sleeve, spattered across his collarbone, but his gaze was steady.
Measured. Kind, even.
“Did you learn something, little bird?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He tilted his head, studying me – not cruelly, just curious.
Then he reached out and wiped a speck of blood from my cheek with his thumb.
