"I know about you and Leonardo," I state, refusing to acknowledge that bastard as my father anymore.
"What do you think you know?" she answers back belligerently.
Does she even have any other mood but aggression? I don't think we've had a normal conversation in our lives. All of them had been her yelling at me, or accusing me of something and getting me in trouble.
"That you fucked?" I ask, amused.
"Yeah, sure, we fucked, so what?" She rolls her eyes at me.
"So what? Chiara, I may have never liked you, but that'sfucked up. You were fourteen!" I say, slightly outraged. I may kill her slowly and painfully over the next few hours, but that doesn't mean I don't recognize that what Leonardo did to her was plain wrong.
"So? I went to him. I knew what I was getting into."
"You were fourteen," I repeat, still in awe that she thinks it was normal.
"It's not like I hadn't watched him fuck others before. I was curious." There's no emotion on her face as she admits it, and I just shake my head.
My parents didn't just fail me. They failed her too.
"I feel sorry for you," I add, "but not sorry enough to forget everything you've done to me."
"What, you're going to smother me with a pillow too?" She mocks me, laughing derisively at me even though she's currently completely immobilized.
"No, it will be much, much worse," I tell her before stuffing her mouth with a cloth.
What I have in mind will have her screaming in pain.
Putting some wires on her chest, I watch one monitor come to life with her pulse. Then, taking a step back, I use a remote control to activate the radiator under the bed. Moving my chair next to the window and away from the bed, I just wait.
The red heat of the radiator is right below the metallic frame of the bed—a prime conductor for heat.
It takes some time until the iron of the bed heats up, and Chiara starts moving around on the bed, trying to lift herself up so she's not in direct contact with the hot metal.
Tears have gathered at the corners of her eyes as she can't hold herself up anymore; she falls onto the hot bed, her throat clogging with screams that won't come out.
The smell of burned flesh is already in the air, and I simply watch as the skin on her back starts to melt, some of it evenflowing down—a mix of red and yellow that almost makes me blink twice in disgust.
She's still thrashing against the restraints, her skin red with heat, effort, and hopelessness as the bed keeps on getting hotter.
The odor coming from her melted skin is making me sick, and I open the window a little, still in my spot. I can't afford to miss this after I've been planning it for so long.
At some point, Chiara stops moving. I move closer to see there's still a pulse. It's very faint, but it's there.
I stop the radiator and wait.
After a few more hours, Chiara is up again, her pulse spiking with her awakening. I push the button, and the radiators start again.
Her throat must be sore and bleeding by now, since she's been trying to scream through her gag the entire time.
But I watch more skin melt off her body, some of it turning black, charred on the surface of the bed, while other trickles of blood and fat fall onto the floor.
I don't stop the radiators this time, letting them run at the highest temperature until the entire portion of her back is red and gnarly, bone visible through the blistered skin.
The monitor, too, stops picking up her pulse. Finally, I go near her, clipping her restraints with a pair of pliers, the metal malleable enough to give way at the first tug. I get rid of those so that there's nothing odd when the authorities discover her body. Then I round the bed and pick up the bedding and pillows, throwing them on top of her and watching as the material clings to the burned flesh, sticking together to create an even worse smell.
With a book under my arm, I set up a small fire just next to the radiators.
One last glance, and I'm out of the room.
