His eyes are wide with terror now, flickering between the knife I’m pretending to examine carefully and my impassive expression. “What are you doing? This isn't funny.”
I smile sweetly, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m not trying to be funny. I'm just fulfilling a fantasy, like I told you.”
Before he can respond, I drag the knife across his chest with just enough pressure to draw a thin line of blood. Not nearly deep enough to do real damage, but enough to hurt just a little. Enough to make him panic. A thin line of blood wells up, stark against his pale skin.
“Fuck!” he bellows, yanking against the restraints. “You crazy bitch! What the fuck are you doing?”
I tilt my head, feigning a look of innocent confusion. “I’m just proving you right, Senator. You said it yourself—people with mental illness are just… what was the phrasing? ‘A burden on society?’ So, I’m showing you just how much of a problem I can be.”
His face contorts with anger and fear as I slash the knife across his torso, leaving another shallow cut. He hisses in pain. “You're fucking insane. Let me go!”
I laugh, and I really do sound like a deranged maniac. The two times I’d killed before this, I’d had brief flickers of guilt and doubt, but not this time. I need to make him suffer. “No, I don’t think I will.”
He spits out a string of curses, writhing as he tries to free himself. I watch him struggle with a sense of detached amusement. This man, who has caused so much suffering, who has used his power to crush the weak and vulnerable, is now reduced to a pitiful, helpless victim.
I bring the knife down again, this time on his upper arm. The blade slices through the skin of his bicep, cutting just a little deeper this time, and he howls in pain. “Please,” he begs. “Please, stop.”
I don’t stop.
The knife swipes over his skin again and again, each cut deeper than the last, and his cries of agony do nothing to deter me. He gasps and shouts and growls out curses, occasionally pleading for me to stop or threatening me.
My only fear is that he’ll break out of his ties, but I made it a point to tie them well and make them tight.
I revel in his suffering. He deserves every excruciating moment a thousand times over.
He’s covered in blood now as the cuts have gone deeper, and it slides down from his stomach and chest in thick rivulets, seeping into the stark white bedsheets beneath.
He tries to kick me, to twist away in any way he can, but I’m too quick, having expected him to lash out in any way he can.
I’m already getting better at anticipating reactions and murdering with precision. Torturing now, too. I’m not sure if I should feel proud or appalled.
I bring the knife to his neck, and he freezes, taking shallow, shaky breaths. The vein in his neck pounds with his rapid pulse. He thinks I’m going to kill him, but I’m not going to give him that mercy… yet.
I lift the knife and dig the blade into his cheek, swiping it down in a sharp stroke, and he chokes out a sob. His eyes squeeze shut, and I replicate the action on his other cheek.
I’d love to pluck out his eye or something, but unfortunately, I don’t have the stomach for that kind of gore, even though I’m resolved to make him suffer as much as possible.
His hands are purple and swollen from thrashing against the tight restraints, and it’s evident by the pure terror in his eyes that he’s realizing he can’t fight this. He’s panting after his desperate attempts at escape and at kicking me, but his wide body prohibits him from bending easily enough to land a kick from where I stand at the side of the bed.
I pause, my chest heaving from the exertion and the adrenaline flooding my veins.
The sound of his whining and pleading is grating on my nerves, and as much as I’d love to torture him all night, a bigger part of me wants to get this over with. Every second I spend in this room is an unnecessary risk at this point, and I know Ambrose will be wondering where I am.
I raise the knife again with calm certainty. My eyes lock on his face, and fear contorts his features into a caricature of his normal self. With a steady hand, I bring the knife down, impaling his stomach. His body convulses beneath me, and Ipush harder until the hilt hits his skin, feeling the blade slice through muscle and flesh. His screams fill the air, like sweet music to my ears, and I yank it out before stabbing him again.
His already pale skin is ashen and sallow with blood loss, and with one final, savage lunge, I plunge the knife into his chest, right where I’d expect his heart to be. He gasps, his chest rattling with the weak breath, until his breathing stops a few seconds later and he slumps against the bed.
He’s dead.
The remaining life force of the senator floods the stone that’s hanging against my chest, though I surprise myself by caring less about the number of years I’ve gained for the bargain and more about the cruel delight of killing another man who deserved it. The man who once held so much authority is now nothing more than a bloody heap on the hotel bed.
Taking the power away from the men who abuse it is intoxicating, an addiction I fear will only grow now that I’ve tasted the sweet satisfaction of vengeance.
I yank my knife from his chest then wipe it down with the bedsheet before sheathing it and putting it back into my purse.
I’m still breathing hard when the sound of the suite door unlocking echoes like a gunshot in the silence. The heavy wooden door swings open, and a woman appears in my line of sight, directly across the living room. From where the door is, she can see directly into the bedroom behind me, and there’s nowhere for me to run.
I recognize her immediately from the pictures. Senator Abbott’s wife.
