“Oh fuck,” Beau grunts beside me, and I feel him twitch.
Henry screams, high and broken, but she suddenly stops and reaches for her phone. She peels off one glove and starts scrolling, calm as fucking ever.
The light from the screen softens her face, casting her in this strange, almost sweet glow. It’s surreal, we’ve gone from a blood-soaked torture scene to her scroll calmly on her phone. My brain can’t reconcile it. The wet slap of Henry’s breathing, the drip of blood onto plastic, and her thumb idly swiping down the screen all blur together in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“Sorry, Henry. Just need to check if I’m doing this right.” She shrugs, as if she’s looking up a cake recipe instead of prepping to wreck his dick.
“Is she Googling how to stab a dick?” Beau whispers, shifting as though he wants to be anywhere else.
“Oh, got it,” she murmurs to herself and kneels between his legs. “I was going to do this after you died, but—” she grabs his dick and lifts it, leaving his balls wide open. “You deserve to suffer just as they all did.”
Then she cutshis fucking balls.
Caleb turns fast, stumbling to a tree before bending over and puking. Beau slaps a hand over his mouth, gagging. Henry’s scream rips through the night, the kind of sound that makes your skin crawl and your teeth ache, but she doesn’t stop.
Blood sprays in jagged bursts, splattering her arms, her chest, the walls. It’s in her hair, glistening under the flicker of the single overhead bulb. She’s drowning in red, and for a second she looks almost otherworldly, something born from violence.
The blood spreads across the plastic, every drop hits with a wet slap.
I should be sick. I should feel panic, disgust, something! But all I feel is curiosity, and I’m hard as fuck.
I’ve done fucked-up things in my life, but this? Fuck me.
Henry’s head slams forward and she looks up at him, almost disappointed.
“That was fast,” she mutters, shaking her head. She finishes the job with clean, steady motions even though her knife sucks and she has to cut the same spot more than once.
She slices the remaining tissue until the severed balls rest heavy in her gloved palm, carrying them to the steel table and setting them down with an almost tender precision, as if placement matters.
“Thank God it’s over,” Beau breathes, relieved.
She wipes her knife on Henry’s shirt, turns, and without pause, opens his eyelids and drives it straight in.
“Fuck no,” Beau chokes, covering his face. I grin, my pulse hammering as I lean in.
She’s unhinged, and I’m loving every second of whatever this is.
Her hands shake harder now, and she curses at the blade. It’s dull, too dull for what she’s doing. She’ll need a better one next time, and there will be a next time. She said not just his name, but also his friends, so this is only the beginning.
I turn around and see Caleb behind the trees, pale and silent except for the sound of him spitting into the dirt. Beau’s sitting on the ground, turned away, white as bone, but me? I can’t look away.
She cuts through the first eye with short, angry cuts, breathing harder each second, blood streaking down her gloves in fat lines, pattering onto the floor. She sets the eye on the table, then goes for the second, digging the blade in until it gives. The wet pop it makes sends a shiver straight down my spine. Both eyes join the balls on the table.
She braces her hands on the edge, her chest rising and falling in hard, shaky bursts. She stands there for a moment, letting her breathing even out.
“What’s she doing now?” Beau asks, his voice rough, small.
“Nothing,” I whisper. “She’s calming herself.”
A couple minutes pass and she reaches for a needle and thread, the kind you’d find in a butcher’s kit. Shepicks up one of the testicles, cradling it in her palm, and walks back to his body. Her gloved fingers work with slow care. She pushes the testicle into the empty eye socket, tucking it in until it sits perfectly. Now she threads the needle and begins to stitch. Each pull of the thread draws the skin tighter, puckering around the obscene shape she’s left there.
I smile.
“What?” Beau yanks my hoodie, eyes wide and frantic.
“She just put one of his testicles in the eye socket and now she’s sewin—” I don’t finish. Beau stumbles up and bolts, his boots scraping against gravel, making too much fucking noise. She freezes, head snapping toward the door.
“Is anyone there?” she calls out, breathless.
