“I didn’t.” Seytan insists. She’s still clearly shocked, but there’s steel in her voice too. She doesn’t like being spoken to that way. “She wastaken. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, by the looks of it, by the fucking doctoryousaid we could trust and that insane vermin boy who wassupposedto be terminated! Where the fuck is our daughter, Paula?”
“Probably at the mercy of our vermin son.”
NOW CONTINUE ON TO ENJOY DEADLIEST PSYCHOS
One, two, her men are coming for you,
Three, four, they’ll be at your door,
Five, six, they won’t play tricks,
Seven, eight, bodies line a crate,
Nine, ten, they’ll have her back again.
JUST A HARMLESS LITTLE THING
Easy To Love - Bryce Savage
Kookaburra
Fear looked beautiful on him.
He whimpered when I stepped into the light.
Good.
Strapped to the rusted gurney, he looked less like a man and more like something left to rot in the dark – skin mottled with bruises, lips cracked and bloodied, legs twitching with the last of his strength. One eye was a swollen slit; the other, wide with terror, tracked my movements like prey watching the wolf circle.
The air was thick with iron and ammonia. It clung to the back of my throat, warm and metallic, the scent of blood and piss and sweat-soaked desperation. I inhaled slowly, deliberately, letting it settle inside me.
There was something sacred about this part. The quiet between screams. The moment when pain wasn’t just a possibility, but a certainty.
I tilted my head, studying him. Every inch of him was a canvas, and I? I was the artist.
Not the frantic kind who splatters emotion across a wall and calls it meaning. No. I was precise. Patient. Controlled.
I crouched beside the gurney, letting my fingers trail along the jagged edge of a split rib. He flinched at the contact, a strangled noise catching in his throat. I smiled.
“Still alive,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. “Good. You were always supposed to last longer than the others.”
Rising slowly, I crossed the room to my workbench – every tool gleaming under the soft hum of the single overhead bulb. Scalpel. Bone saw. Rib shears. An antique ice pick I’d found in a pawn shop and lovingly restored.
I ran my fingertips across the collection, eyes half-lidded in something almost like reverence. Every piece had a purpose. Every edge, a voice. Some screamed. Some sang.
Tonight, I needed something…delicate.
I picked up the scalpel. Lightweight. Balanced. The blade caught the light like a wink.
“Do you know what I love about skin?” I asked, turning back to him. “It lies. Pretends to be whole. Strong. But one cut, just one, and it tells you everything you need to know.”
I returned to his side and placed the blade gently against the soft flesh of his inner thigh. He jerked.
“Tsk.” I pressed down.
He didn’t scream. Not yet. He gasped, back arching against the restraints, muscles spasming beneath me. I pulled the blade in a slow, careful line – no deeper than necessary, just enoughto open him. His blood rose like oil in water, welling up before sliding down his skin in a thin, obedient trickle.
