Page 2 of Sinner: Before Rain (The Devil’s Society)

Chapter

Two

ELIJAH - SEVENTH BIRTHDAY

“ E lijah, turn the handle.”

My eyes concentrate on the person lying on the table, his limbs tied to each corner. His eyes water. His lips move, but no spoken words escape, ‘Please help me.’

Why does he think I would help him? Turning my head, confused, my brows furrow trying to understand.

“Elijah!”

Adam’s strong, stern voice startles me as his hand grips my shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

Shaking my head, “He asked me to help him. Why?”

A chuckle follows after my question, “Because he is a dumb piece of shit. He doesn’t get you, don’t give a fuck about him.

He thinks he can pull on your heartstrings and play them like a fucking violin.

This motherfucker doesn’t know your frontal cortex doesn’t respond to this shit.

He’s about to learn just who the fuck you are. Elijah Sinclair.”

As Adam says my name, the man on the table’s eyes widen. “No, no, no.”

My hands grip the table's turn handle – each corner of the table has one – as I continue to observe the man in front of me. His facial expressions continue to change with each of my movements.

From pleading to anger.

As I turn the handle, the rope tied around his wrist goes from sitting loosely to tightened. Then, as I continue, it begins to retract.

His face was angry and now shows pain.

Interesting.

Continuing to turn, the rope pulls, causing a strain on his shoulder joint.

Now he is screaming.

My hands move faster, wanting to see what will happen next. It gets harder to turn as the tension on the rope tightens. Adam’s hands grip over mine, pride wants me to shake him off, but I know if I am going to make this work, I need his strength.

One more hard turn and the sound I have been craving to hear happens, and quickly.

The shoulder dislocates, popping directly out of the socket.

Adam lets go as I turn the handle by myself again now that there is less tension.

Then the scream of terror and extreme pain follows. Smiling, I keep going.

Loud tears can faintly be heard next. His arm muscles and ligaments are now completely detached.

Adrenaline and pride fill my chest.

Three more to go.

A couple of hours later, all limbs are completely detached. He passed out a few times, but Adam showed me that by using doses of adrenaline, which we stabbed into his chest, they wake up, forcing them to continue feeling the pain we are inflicting.

We gave this guy two doses.

He has been crying most of the time, which I have found to be the most annoying part of this. But as time continues to pass, I am able to zone out and only hear the ropes brushing on the table, the creeks of the handle as I turn it and the pops of the limbs becoming detached.

Looking over my shoulder, my wooden bat is propped against the counter. I desperately want to use it each time a cry or scream makes its way into my happy place. But the long game is what matters, so Adam says.

My dad says I have to listen to him, or else he will take Adam away from me .

So my bat remains behind me.

“Elijah. It’s time. End it.”

The guy lying on the table is nothing more than a torso with a head.

I never asked what he did to deserve this. I don’t care, frankly.

Looking down, I see a tin bucket with a few rats inside that haven’t eaten in a day or two. I reach down and grip the thin, cool handle. The rats scurry, one even goes on its hind legs in an effort to get free.

Walking up to the man’s face, I take him in once more. His eyes are barely open, with dry tears on his cheeks.

Adam passes me a thick rectangle tin cover for the bucket. Placing it on top, I hold it tightly to ensure the rats stay secured as I flip the bucket over. The rats fall on the tin lid.

Quickly, I place it on the guy's face, holding the bucket with all my strength as I rapidly slid the lid out from beneath it.

Adam passes me a BBQ lighter. Flicking it on, I heat the metal bucket.

The rats become quiet.

They are trying to escape by eating through his flesh and eyes.

“You should put a glove on, or your hand will burn,” Adam suggests while placing a heat-resistant glove next to me. I shake my head. I don’t need it .

I do wish I could see through this bucket though, and watch the rats eat this fucker alive.

The heat is warm against my hand. Little squeaks from the rats can be heard alongside painful moans from the guy.

Minutes pass.

I am still entranced by the sight before me. Allowing my eyes to slide down the man's body, I watch his chest. His breathing had been faint after the last dose of adrenaline, so I had been monitoring it while the rats have been eating his face.

My eyes don’t blink as I watch and wait.

The cries have stopped. And so has his heart.

He’s gone.

Lifting the bucket up, and dropping it to my feet, the rats scurry.

Blood trickles from both eyes. Both eyelids have been chewed through, and pieces of the eyeballs are gone. The lips are also chewed to shit along with the nostrils on the nose. Deep scratches decorate each cheek. Burn marks line the perimeter of his face from the scorching heat of the bucket.

I did this.

Pride fills me.

“Now, clean up your mess.”

Adam leaves.

This was my first full-cycle kill. From grabbing him, torturing him, keeping him alive, killing, and now disposing of the body .

Familiar footsteps come from behind me just as I am about to get started on dismembering.

It’s my dad.

His hands rest gently on my shoulders. “Happy birthday, son. I hope you liked your gift.”