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Secure. Contained.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing…”

I pull the syringe from my other pocket. His eyes go wide.

He thrashes, but he’s clumsy, his panic is stealing what little coordination he has left. I step in fast, calm, deliberate.

“What the fuck is that?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I pop the cap and tilt the needle up, pressing the plunger until a thin thread of milky-white fluid beads at the tip. The sight shuts him up faster than anything I could’ve said.

Propofol. Quick. Clean. Predictable. Just enough to knock him out, not kill him, yet. I want him awake for that part.

He tries to twist away, but there’s nowhere to go. I catch his arm and find the vein easily, years of practice guiding my fingers. The needle slides in smooth. Controlled.

“You bitch,” he gasps, slurring already.

His head lolls to the side as the drug hits his system. Muscles slacken. The fight leaves his eyes before his breath even slows.

I slam the door shut, the sound echoing like a final verdict.

And still, the rage simmers in my veins…

I’m back in my father’s study. The smell of leather-bound Bibles and the faint, acrid tang of whiskey fills the air. Kerr sits in the chair opposite my father, both speaking in low, conspiratorial tones. My hands clutch my knees, nails digging into the fabric of my dress as they discuss me like I’m a lamb to be slaughtered.

“She’s got potential,” Kerr says, his voice slick. “But she’s unruly, too wild. A wife needs discipline, Pastor.”

The words send a cold ripple through my chest. My father’s reply is curt. “I’m doing what I can, Kerr. You know these things take time.”

“She could be perfect,” Kerr presses, his eyes cutting to me for a fleeting, cruel glance. “A woman shaped by a man’s hand is a gift from God.”

I want to run. I want to scream. But I don’t. I can’t. Because I know exactly what waits for me if I defy them… and it’s worse…

The drive back to the cabin feels heavier than the cold pressing against the truck’s windows. The engine thrums softly beneath the silence, a low vibration that fills the space between us.

Kerr shifts in the seat next to me, his body slumping awkwardly, the zip ties biting into his wrists. I glance to my right. His eyes are half-lidded, foggy from the last of the drug, but there’s still a flicker of awareness, just enough for him to know he’s caught, and there’s no way out.

He tugs weakly at the restraints, a pitiful little struggle, and I feel a pulse of satisfaction spark low in my chest. Let him pull. Let him feel it. Let it sink in.

The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull up to the cabin. I leave the headlights on, their pale beams cutting through the darkness. The faint sound of the pigs stirring reaches me as I open the truck door, their restless snorts carrying on the cold wind. They know.

I drag Kerr from the truck and dump his body into a wheelchair I took from the clinic. His dead weight drapes against me, heavy and awkward, like hauling a sack of grain. He groans, knees buckling, boots dragging uselessly across the dirt, but I keep pulling, step by slow step.

The shed looms ahead, its crooked shape etched sharp against the night sky, waiting.

At the fence, the pigs shove forward, thick bodies straining against the wood, snouts lifted, twitching, tasting his scent on the cold night air. Their small, dark eyes gleam in the faint light spilling from the open door, sharp, hungry, glinting with an almost eager shine.

The grunting rises, louder now, urgent, a restless chorus of anticipation. They know. They always know. And their growing frenzy only hardens my resolve, settling something deep and cold inside me.

Inside, the air is thicker, damp with the lingering scent of rust and blood. I pull the chair toward the gambrel, its cold, metal frame glinting under the single hanging bulb. With practiced precision, I cut the ties and place his arms in the contraption. I lift him, his body sagging against the restraints as I secure his wrists to the chains. The gambrel creaks under the strain, but it holds. His head lolls forward, his breathing shallow but steady.

“Welcome to your reckoning,” I say softly. The words hang in the frigid air like a curse, each syllable precise and deliberate. I step closer, studying every clogged pore on his face. The lines etched in his skin, proving that time hasn’t been good to him.

The clock ticks behind me, an antique wall clock that once belonged to my grandmother. It doesn’t belong in this space. It’s much too pristine for the mud, dust, and dank that makes up the shed, but it brings me comfort. Not everyone in my family was a monster. Some were innocently unaware of the evil that shared their bloodline. The devil hiding behind the cloak of God himself.

Kerr starts to stir, his movements fluid until he becomes more aware. That’s when his body jerks in feeble attempts at resistance. I step back to survey the scene. His eyes meet mine, wide and bloodshot with panic. I can see the questions swirling in his gaze. Why me? What have you done? But he won’t ask them. He can’t. The rag stuffed in his mouth ensures that all I hear are muffled, pathetic grunts that the pigs seem to mock with their restless snorting. Their frenzy has reached a fever pitch, their greedy, primal sounds echoing off the shed walls as they fight to get closer.

I tilt my head, studying him the way a hunter admires a freshly caught kill. There’s no humanity left in his expression now, just raw terror. It’s satisfying in a way I’m almost ashamed to admit, but I don’t let it linger. This isn’t about satisfaction. It’s about justice.