Page 7

“So, you’re useless is what you’re saying,” I surmise, inching the blade towards his eye.

He squeezes them shut as if skin that’s no thicker than a centimeter is going to prevent the knife from going through his eye.

Fucking laughable.

“No, no, no,” he pleads. “I know someone there that might be able to give you more information.”

Sweat drips down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His overgrown greasy blonde hair is matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it’s not actually blonde anymore since most of it’s painted red now.

I had already cut off one of his ears, along with ripping off ten of his fingernails, severed both Achilles heels, a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that won’t allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too many broken bones to count.

Dickhead won’t be getting up and walking out of here, that’s for damn sure.

“Less crying, more talking,” I bark, scraping the tip of the knife against his still-closed eyelid.

He cringes away from the knife, tears bubbling out from beneath his lashes.

“H-his name is Fernando. He’s one of the operation leaders in charge of sending out mules to help capture the girls. He-he’s a big deal in the warehouse, b-basically runs the whole thing there.”

“Fernando what?” I snap.

He sobs. “I don’t know, man,” he wails. “He just introduced himself as Fernando.”

“Then what does he look like?” I grind out impatiently through gritted teeth.

He sniffles, snot leaking down his chapped lips.

“Mexican, bald, has a scar cutting across his hairline, and a beard. You can’t miss the scar, it’s pretty fucked looking.”

I roll my neck, groaning as the muscles pop. It’s been a long fucking day.

“Cool, thanks man,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been torturing him slowly for the past three hours.

His breathing calms, and he looks up at me through ugly brown eyes, hope radiating from them in spades.

I almost laugh.

“Y-you’re letting me go?” he asks, staring up at me like a goddamn stray puppy dog.

“Sure,” I chirp. “If you can get up and walk.”

He looks down at his severed heels, knowing just as well as I do if he stands, his body will go pitching forward.

“Please, man,” he blubbers. “Can you help me out here?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I can do that,” I say, right before I swing my arm back and plunge the entirety of my knife through his pupil.

He dies instantly. Not even all the hope has vanished from his eyes yet. Or rather, his one eye.

“You’re a child rapist,” I say aloud, though he’s no longer capable of hearing me. “Like I’d let you live,” I finish on a laugh.

I slide my knife from the socket, the suction noise threatening to ruin any dinner plans I had in the next several hours. Which is annoying cause I’m hungry. While I do enjoy myself a good torture session, I’m definitely not a dickhead that gets off on the sounds that accompany it.

The gurgling, slurping, and other weird noises bodies make when enduring extreme pain and foreign objects being plunged into them is not a soundtrack I’d ever fall asleep to.

And now for the worst part—dismembering it into bits and pieces and disposing of them properly. I don’t trust other people to do it for me, so I’m stuck with the tedious, messy job.

I sigh. What is that saying? If you want it done right, do it yourself?