“Oh, I know, burns like a bitch,” I murmur, holding his hand still as the glue pools, hardens, and locks his ruined hand into a stiff, mangled claw. “But it’s more than pain, Sam. It’s permanence.”
He screams until his voice breaks, and I watch his throat work uselessly, like a fish out of water.
“Still got nine fingers left,” I remind him gently, brushing hair from his blood-slick face. “And I’m just getting started.”
I stand and stroll back to the table. My boots squish against the blood-smeared floor. A slow grin creeps over my face as I grab the lighter and the ice pick.
One brings fire. The other, frost.Balance.
When I turn back around, Sam is sobbing quietly. “Please,” he croaks. “Please, I didn’t know she wasyours…”
I stop cold. “Didn’t know?” The words echo inside me, bounce around like gunshots.
I walk up to him again, quieter this time.
“You didn’t know?” I ask softly, tilting his chin again. “You were ready to sell her like she was livestock, Sam. My woman. And now, you want mercy?”
He shakes his head, but it’s too late.
“You’ll have to earn mercy.”
I flick the lighter to life and let the flame dance just below the ice pick’s tip. The metal heats slowly, glowing red.
“Let’s start with your knees.”
Sam starts shaking his head before I even move. His breath comes in rapid, wheezing pants, like he’s trying to hyperventilate the pain away. I don’t give him the luxury.
The ice pick glows dull red. I grip it like a dagger and kneel in front of him.
He starts to beg. Words slurring together, “Please,” “God,” “I’ll talk”, but I’ve heard it all before. Pain makes people say whatever they think will make it stop. I’m not looking for desperation. I’m looking for the truth.
I grab his right leg and slam my forearm into his thigh to pin it down. He thrashes until I drive my elbow into his kneecap. That shuts him up.
“Don’t move,” I growl. “You’ll want this to be clean.”
A lie. There’s nothing clean about this.
I drive the tip of the red-hot pick into the side of his knee, just beneath the patella. Cartilage crunches like shattered glass. His scream is a broken thing, wet and animalistic. The stench of burning flesh fills the air—a sickening mix of blood, sweat, and scorched meat.
He nearly blacks out.
“Stay with me, Sam.” I slap his cheek. Hard. “You pass out, I wake you up, and we start again. You understand?”
Tears streak down his cheeks as he nods frantically.
“Good.”
I twist the pick. He arches up so violently that the chair tips, but it doesn’t fall; his zip ties hold too tightly. His mouth hangs open, jaw trembling, no sound coming out now. Just a raw gasp like the last bit of air got ripped from his lungs.
I yank the ice pick free. Blood pours down his leg, dark and heavy.
“You’re not just paying for what you thought you could do to her,” I whisper, leaning close. “You’re paying for all of the things your piece of shit brother did do to her.”
His head lolls. I stand again and wipe the tool on a rag.
Behind me, the steel door creaks open.
I freeze.
