Page 152 of The Night Shift

His tiny dick is barely attached now, hanging on by a single, sinewy thread of muscle. A final, sharp tug severs it completely.

The detached chunk flops against his belly with a wet slap. Blood seeps from the open wound in thick pulses, pooling in the curve of his navel. I rip another strip of fabric, looping it tightly around the base of the wound, yanking hard. A make-shift tourniquet.

His head lolls to the side. His eyelids flutter.

Oh, no you don’t. Not yet.

I glance around. In the corner of his roach-infested kitchen, sits a hammer. It’s like a fuckingsignfrom God herself. A blessing to keep on going.

I giggle, practically skipping as I grab it. My fingers curl around the heavy handle. I grab a dirty, steel plate on the way back and turn to Nate.

He’s barely clinging to awareness. Drool slips past the gag. I slap him once more.

His body jolts, eyes snapping open.

“We’re not done yet, sweetheart.” I set the filthy steel plate beside him. “Not even close.”

I take his right hand and slam it down onto the plate, spreading his fingers wide.

The first swing comes fast.

The hammer meets bone with a dull, meaty crunch. A high-pitched whine tears from his throat. The second hit shatters his index and middle fingers. The skin tears, peeling back in thick, wet flaps. The third hit obliterates the wrist bones. The fourth hit caves in the knuckles entirely, flattening them into something inhuman.

My pulse thrums with electric delight.

I drop the hammer and wipe my bloody hands on my skirt, pushing my damp hair from my forehead.

Nate is fully sobbing now.

I take out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and flick the cap off with my thumb. The makeshift tourniquet is wrapped tight around the mangled base of his severed penis. I grab the knot and rip it loose before pouring the alcohol over the wound.

At first, nothing.

Then his body jerks.

His spine arches off the bed in a spastic, violent lurch. He wails — or, at least, he tries to. His tongue is still numb. His vocal cords too ruined, his throat too raw. I really don’t know how he hasn’t died from the pain yet. Resilient bastard. Like a filthy roach.

But that’s fine.

I head back to his kitchen and rifle through cabinets until I find what I need. A bottle of vegetable oil. Perfect. I start pouring it everywhere. The floor, the cheap curtains, the tattered wallpaper.

Nate watches me through half-lidded, bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t give me that look. Just because you went to prison doesn’t mean I intend to. Did you know they can’t perform autopsies on burnt bodies?”

I toss the empty bottle aside with a hollow clatter.

“And I know what you’re thinking. That I’m not actually going to set this whole place on fire because you’re not only person who lives in this house. There’s a family in the unit below, right?”

I reach into my fanny pack again, pulling out my lighter, flipping it open with a soft metallicsnick. The tiny flame flickers to life. His eyes follow the motion.

“But that really isn’t my problem, now, is it?” I say, watching him carefully. “If you hadn’t hurt my…” I pause, tongue pressing against my teeth.Frienddoesn’t seem right. Not quite. But the alternatives feel too big, too messy, too…dangerous. “If you hadn’t hurt my colleague,” I settle on, my grip on the lighter tightening, “then I wouldn’t be hurting you back, now, would I?”

My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I snap the lighter shut. My fingers, still slick with blood, fumble as I yank it out. It’s a text from Cami.

Cami: i’m hereeeee. pls come down fast. work was horrible. i need a drink.

I shove the phone back inside. It’s time to wrap this up.