Page 54

Begging will get you nowhere, or has she forgotten?

The countless lives that have begged in this same spot, each La Notte del Diavolo, have never convinced me to change my mind.

Digging the blade into the skin, I begin slicing her tattoo off, moving the sharp blade under her skin. Blood trickles down her arm, she is screaming in agony. Trying to move her arm, Rain keeps my mom’s sleeve rolled up but also grips her arm at the elbow to stop her from moving as much.

Leaving Rain to hold her arm, I let go and grab the skin as it begins to hang off her. Then, in one rapid movement, I pull on it, ripping it down her arm the rest of the way.

A blood curdling scream fills my ears. Smiling, I’m glad she’s hurting.

Her other hand fists, at first I think she is going to take a swing at me, but she doesn’t. Moving it to her mouth, she bites down on it, her knuckles are white and her breathing is heavy.

Using the blade again, I make the final cut and the thick piece of skin falls to the ground. Blood is now flowing down her arm, building up where Rain’s hand is holding her. Blood runs off and drips at our feet.

Mom has tears running down her face, snot hanging from her nose and strings of saliva coming from her mouth.

“Thank you, little bat.” I look at her, so fucking beautiful and kiss the top of her head.

Rain lets go of my mom, stepping back to stand next to me.

“The motherfucker on the ground should be up soon. It’s time for you to go.” My head tilts as her emotions change again, back to fear.

This is what gets me off.

People have many faces, you see their true one just before they die.

Nothing left to hide behind. Only unfiltered, raw emotion remains. Regret and fear—promises to change usually come next from those who are guilty of something.

Pure terror, worry and confusion come from those who are innocent.

I’ve seen it all.

Grabbing the strap of my flamethrower, I toss it over my shoulder, taking it off and holding it in front of me.

Taking the lighter from my pocket, I turn the gas on and light the flame then put the lighter back in my pocket.

Pointing it at my mom, her eyes widen and she immediately sobers.

“No, no, no. Don’t do this. Please. My sweet baby boy, please.” Her words stutter as she speaks.

Taking a step back, she thinks that will help. But I take a step forward.

Her robe sleeve has slid back down, and blood continues to flow down her hand.

“Keep moving backwards.”

Nodding, she obeys.

Too bad for her, I am already steps ahead of her in this.

For each step back, I take one forward with my flamethrower aimed at her.

As we get closer, you can hear the crackle of the flames. Feel the heat radiating off the large fire.

Her head shakes, no. Mine nods, yes.

“Keep moving.”

Her next step back is small—too small.