“Something tells me you’re the kind of guy who leaves his socks on when he fucks, so you’re going to die with them on.”
Beneath Furt, his shredded clothing outlines his body like chalk lines at a murder scene.
“So, let’s get started, shall we. Ever heard of a board game called Operation?”
Another tear slips down Furt’s cheek, and I shake my head.
“No?Tsk. Tsk.It’s a classic. Say, did you play it with those kids? Or did you only force them to play doctor?”
My stomach twists into something monstrous and angry. The longer Furt’s watery eyes stare at me in pure fear, the angrier I get.
Those poor kids never had a choice.
Now, neither will Furt.
“This game was one of my favorites.” I run the tip of theblade up Furt’s leg, not hard enough to break skin. “My dad used to have a family board game night. Just him and his kids. This was one I’d always pick.”
Furt’s chest rises and falls rapidly. If I keep toying with him, he’s going to die of a heart attack.
Dad died from a heart attack. That’s too good a way for Furt to go.
“Well, where should I start? I always went for the rubber band in the leg. You know, the ankle bone connected to the knee bone? Remember that little song.”
I humDem Bonesas the tip of my knife digs into Furt’s right ankle. My stomach rolls, and I ignore the squeamish, unsettled feeling in my gut. This is the bloodiest kill I’ve ever planned, and while it’s a work of art, I didn’t factor in that my stomach is weak and blood grosses me out.
Red liquid cries like tears as my knife works its way up the ulna before reaching the kneecap. The tip slices through his flesh until it circles around to meet the initial cut, a giant rubber-band-like oval from one end to the other.
“Now that we’re done with one ankle, let’s move to the other. That’s the wrenched ankle, remember. Get it? Wrench?”
With care, I trace a wrench deep into his skin. The first few digs are easy, but as blood smears across his leg, it’s harder to make sure my design is symmetrical. I’m sure the police will get the picture, though.
“And while we’re on this leg, let’s do water on the knee.”
I dig the tip of my blade in hard over his knee replacement. Furt’s paper-thin skin gives little resistance as I draw a water bucket on his knee.
“You know, I wasn’t much of an artist when I was a kid. Maybe if my school could have afforded an art teacher andsome basic supplies, I could have been the next Warhol. But no, that didn’t happen. You see, our governor cut funding to arts programs the year I was in third grade. So, no arts and crafts for us poor public school kids.”
I dig deeper than I intended as I carve the bucket’s handle from one end to the other—blood pools behind the crux of his knee against the kitchen counter.
“So, what now? Should we keep moving up? Next is a charley horse.”
I take my time with this one, working from the bottom up in a horse drawing that would make a caveman laugh at my rudimentary attempt. By the time I’m done, my carving resembles a dog more than a fucking horse. It’s disappointing, but it’s not like I can erase it and start over.
“What’s next?” I pull out my sketch from my back pocket and check. “Ah, yes. The funny bone.”
Digging into the fleshy part of Furt’s arm, I carve something that looks identical to the wrench—stupid lack of art classes. I’m blaming the American education system for this botch job.
His skin’s blanched so pale now, it’s only a matter of time before he bleeds out. I was careful not to nick his femoral artery, but he’s losing a lot of blood below his belt. I didn’t expect him to make it until the end, but I thought he’d at least hang in there until I got to his spareribs.
“Next is the writer’s cramp. Now, I don’t want this one to kill you, so I’ll cut on the top part of your arm. I’m a nice guy like that.”
God, Daphne would crack up if she heard me call myself a ‘nice guy.’ I’d never live it down.
My pencil looks like shit. A rectangle with a triangle at the end, and I still manage to carve a crooked triangle. Kindergarteners could do a better job. I should havepracticed. Bought a pig belly and practiced on that before making dinner, but no. I had to go in blind. Practice makes perfect, and I’m the idiot who didn’t bother to practice.
“Well, that’s the arms and legs. How about the belly? You can tell this is a kid’s game because instead of a beer belly, they call it a breadbasket.”
My water bucket and breadbasket could be twins, so I slice my crisscrosses along the basket to resemble a weave pattern. That’s better.
