Page 187 of Healed

“Not to worry. You know now, that’s the main thing.”

“That baby will die, just like the fucking last one,” I hissed at him.

Vienna’s back stiffened, his hands clenching on the table. I heard him breathe heavily for a few moments, and I smiled.

I’d got to him.

Just as I was about to open my mouth, he turned around, a big smile on his face.

“So, where were we?”

My eyes fell to the make-shift sword in his hands.

“Wha—”

“Ahh, yes. Foreplay.”

He grinned at me.

I didn’t like that fucking grin.

“Let me teach you how it works,” he said, slowly stalking towards me. “See these hands? You always used them to hurt. To take without permission. To inflict pain on those who couldn’t defend themselves.”

He tucked the sword under his arm and flattened my palm against the table. I tried to pull away, but as the pain exploded behind my eyes, Vienna’s strength overpowered me.

“You shouldn’t have done that. Hands are there to give pleasure. To comfort before they ever hurt. But we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He brought the sword down, slicing my wrist clean off.

I howled in pain, but I couldn’t move.

My back arched off the table, and I thrashed wildly, but my arm was still pinned. I twisted my head and blew, trying to blow on the pain of my severed wrist, trying to blow away the sting and the blood that was pouring from me and onto the table.

Vienna calmly walked around until he was on my other side.

And then he brought the sword down on my other wrist.

He grunted with the effort, and then the air was filled with the sound of crunching bone and ripping skin.

“Oops. Missed a bit,” he chuckled, grabbing my wrist and twisting it, tearing through the remaining tendons.

I screamed in pain, an agonising, unimaginable pain that burnt through my arm and spread through my body. My head exploded in anguish, and a warm, wet feeling spread at the centre of my trousers.

“All done,” Vienna sang, waving my severed hand in my face.

“Fuck… fuck. You,” I panted, the sweat pouring from my forehead.

“Hey, now! That wasn’t very friendly,” he tutted, and then slapped me across my face with my own hand.

I gagged as my fingers dragged across my face, barely noticing what Vienna was up to until it was too late.

Not that I could have done anything about it anyway.

He went over to the table again and picked up a blow-torch.

“Just need to cauterise these,” he said in the same sing-song voice. “Can’t have you bleeding out on me. There’s still so much to teach you about foreplay!”

He brought the flame to my stump, and the last thing I remembered was the searing, mind-numbing flash of white-hot pain, and the overwhelming stench of burning flesh.