Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

148. The Perfect Day

CHAPTER 148

THE PERFECT DAY

DEX

LATER IN THE EVENING

T he room is dark, illuminated only by the flicker of a single overhead bulb swinging slightly with the breeze from the old ceiling fan. The shadows cast along the concrete walls feel alive, restless, as though they share my anticipation.

Timmy deserves this.

Every broken piece of Margaux’s spirit, every tear she shed, every time she flinched at the sound of a raised voice—he’s going to answer for all of it. Not quickly. Not easily. Not mercifully.

I pull a thick notebook from the table, its pages filled with my scrawled notes, diagrams, and lists. Tools, timing, contingencies. Everything is carefully planned. A sick sort of satisfaction rolls through me as I flip to the next page and see my collection of ‘reminders.’ Reminders of why I’m doing this. Photos of Margaux’s bruised arms and black eyes. Screenshots of his vile text messages. A grainy image from the courthouse showing her leaving, holding back tears.

He’s going to beg before I’m done. Not just for his life, but for her forgiveness. And I’ll record every pathetic second of it.

I step into the corner, where my arsenal is laid out meticulously. Each item serves a purpose, a twisted piece of the justice puzzle. The ti leaf leis and string of shells, symbols of the manipulative ‘thoughtful’ gestures Timmy used to keep Margaux under his thumb, now dangle like trophies.

The jagged lid of a smashed toilet tank leans against the wall—a small, dirty reminder of the mundane things he used to destroy her sanity.

A soft lilac hammer, absurd in its pastel brightness, sits next to a box of deer antlers.

In the far corner of the room sits the pièce de résistance: a wood chipper. Its metal teeth gleam even in the dim light, a predator waiting for its prey.

Timmy is dragged into the room by two of my most trusted associates, his wrists bound, his face pale and sweaty. His eyes dart around, taking in the implements of his demise. He freezes when his gaze lands on the wood chipper.

“Please,” he stammers. “What do you want from me? I’ll do anything.”

I crouch in front of him, forcing him to meet my eyes. “What I want is simple,” I say, my voice low and calm. “You’re going to confess. To everything. You’re going to apologize to Margaux for every single thing you’ve done. And you’re going to mean it.”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” he whimpers, the tremor in his voice betraying his terror.

I laugh, cold and humorless. “Oh, Timmy. That’s not how this works.” I gesture to the table, where a recorder sits blinking red. “Let’s start with the truth.”

I move behind him and fasten a lei around his neck, pulling it just tight enough to make him wheeze. “Remember these? Margaux loved them. Or, she used to. Before you turned every kind gesture into a leash.”

I release him and pick up the hammer. “This one’s fun. Pretty, isn’t it?” I swing it lightly, letting it tap his shoulder. He flinches as though I’d hit him with full force. “We’ll get to it.”

I walk over to the table and pull out a large pot of steaming ramen water. “Hungry? You always loved ramen.” I toss a ladle of the boiling liquid onto his thigh. He screams, writhing against his restraints. The sound is music to my ears.

“Confess, Timmy,” I say, tilting the pot toward him. “It’ll hurt less.”

His voice cracks as he begins to mumble incoherent apologies. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to... Please, don’t?—”

“Not good enough.” I pick up a grater, running its jagged edges across his arm with enough pressure to leave angry red lines. He winces as blood starts to pool in his abrasions. “This is for lying to the police about Margaux scratching you. Try again.”

He breaks earlier than I expected. “Okay, okay!” he yells. “I’ll do it! I did all those things to Margaux! I abused her and I hurt her. I lied to her. I’m sorry !”

His words are desperate, fake.

“Can I go now?” he pleads.

I quirk a brow and smirk. “Did you really think I was going to let you off that easily?”

His eyes grow wide as he realizes I’m far from done with him.

That he’s not going to make it out of this room alive.

“Get comfy,” I say. “You’re going to be here for a while.”

He lets out a whimper as tears slide down his cheeks.

The session continues, a twisted symphony of his screams, my calm instructions, and the rhythmic hum of the wood chipper waiting in the wings. He cries, begs, and pleads, promising anything if I’ll just stop.

But I don’t.

Instead, I pick up the shiny, white toilet lid and smack it over his head. He cries out and sits, stunned, while I take its jagged edge and run it down his arm, cutting a deep gash into his badly tattooed flesh. Crimson pours from the wound, large drops landing on the floor at his feet.

I bring out a device with a sturdy metal frame and multiple prods attached to the end. The device hums to life with a low mechanical whirr, a sound that feels almost innocuous compared to what it’s about to unleash. The rows of polished steel rods begin their rhythm, prodding forward and retracting in perfect synchronization. The tips gleam under the dim light, deceptively small but unyielding.

Timmy’s eyes widen as the realization sinks in. "What the fuck is that?" he spits, thrashing against the restraints. His voice cracks, the cocky defiance slipping as fear tightens its grip on him.

“It’s something special, just for you,” I say, my voice cold, detached. “Think of it as... poetic justice.”

I position the device near his exposed arms first, the rods set to randomize their poking pattern. With a single press of a button, the motion intensifies. The first few pokes are almost laughably gentle, but then the rods begin to land harder, faster. The tips press into his skin, leaving faint red marks that quickly deepen into bruises.

Timmy flinches, gritting his teeth, but the composure doesn’t last long. “Stop! Fuck, that hurts!” he yells, his voice high-pitched, panicked.

“Does it?” I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. “Good. Imagine what Margaux felt every time you chipped away at her, one cruel comment at a time. One lie. One bruise—hidden or otherwise.”

The rods continue their relentless assault, targeting his biceps, forearms, and ribs. His skin mottles with deep purple bruises, each poke igniting a new jolt of pain. He writhes against the bindings, sweat dripping from his temple, but there’s no escape.

“You’re fucking insane!” he screams, his voice hoarse, cracking with desperation. “Let me go, you psychopath!”

I lean in close, my voice barely above a whisper. “You think I’m insane? You’ve barely scratched the surface, Timmy.”

The device shifts to his thighs, and the repeated jabs force his legs to twitch involuntarily. He lets out a guttural yell, his bravado completely gone. Tears streak down his face now, pooling at the edges of his quivering lips.

“You don’t get to cry,” I snap, my voice suddenly sharp. “Margaux cried enough for a lifetime because of you.”

As the machine continues, a strange sensation washes over me—a mix of satisfaction and hollowness. The satisfaction comes from seeing him unravel, watching as the mask he wore so confidently shatters piece by piece. But the hollowness? That’s harder to explain. Maybe it’s because I know this will never undo what he did to Margaux. No amount of pain I inflict on him can truly erase hers.

I step back, watching as Timmy’s entire body trembles, his skin blotched and swollen. He’s sobbing now, broken in a way I once thought impossible for someone as narcissistic as him.

“I’ll do anything,” he pleads, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry. Please stop. Please. ”

The apology is hollow, forced, a pathetic attempt to save himself. I know it’s meaningless. But I record it anyway, every word, every broken sob. Margaux deserves to hear him grovel, even if it’s a farce.

My hand hovers over the control panel. The machine slows, then halts, the rods retracting one final time. Timmy’s head hangs forward, his body shaking with silent sobs. I crouch down to meet his eye level, forcing him to look at me.

“You’re nothing,” I tell him, my voice steady, quiet. “And you’re going to feel every ounce of pain you put Margaux through before I’m done.”

He stares at me, his face a canvas of terror, pain, and humiliation. For a brief moment, I wonder if he regrets everything, anything. But I dismiss the thought just as quickly as it comes. People like Timmy don’t regret—they rationalize, justify, excuse.

And that’s why this isn’t over. Not yet.

Keeping his hands restrained, I drag him from the chair to the shiny metal table in the center of the room. It gleams under the harsh overhead light, a sterile contrast to the dark intentions I’ve brought here. He stumbles, his bound feet clumsy as he struggles against me, muttering incoherent protests.

“Please, no—what are you doing?!” His voice cracks, raw with desperation, but I ignore him.

I position him on his back, forcing his head to dangle off the end of the table, lower than his feet. The blood rushes to his face, turning it blotchy and red, making the panic in his eyes stand out stark against his flushed skin.

“Stop! You can’t do this!” he screams, jerking his body uselessly as I press his shoulders down. He can’t move. He’s powerless.

“Quiet, Timmy,” I say, my voice calm, almost detached. “We’re just getting started.”

I grab a dark cloth from the table nearby and slowly place it over his face, ensuring it covers his mouth and nose completely. His muffled pleas grow more frantic, his chest heaving beneath the restraints as he fights to suck in air. The fabric muffles his voice, turning his words into unintelligible whimpers, but the terror in his tone is unmistakable.

“This,” I say, leaning closer so he can hear me over his muffled gasps, “is for waterboarding Margaux’s laptop. Tit for tat, Timmy. It’s only fair.”

His entire body thrashes as the first drops of water hit the cloth, soaking it. His feet kick uselessly against the table’s edge, and his hands jerk in their restraints. The water seeps through the fabric, cutting off his air supply in terrifying increments. His body convulses, his instincts screaming at him to breathe, but every attempt is met with the suffocating weight of water.

His muffled screams turn into wet, gurgling noises, his chest bucking upward in a futile attempt to fill his lungs with air. The disorientation in his eyes is raw, animalistic—pure survival. His head jerks violently from side to side, trying to escape the torrent, but there’s nowhere to go.

And me? I feel... steady. Too steady.

There’s no rush of satisfaction, no sense of justice being served. Only a cold, calculated focus. Every time I pour, I watch him struggle, his body betraying him as panic overtakes him. He sputters, chokes, convulses. It’s a grotesque display, and part of me thinks it should feel wrong, should feel like it’s too much.

But then I think of Margaux. I think of her sitting in her hotel room, tears streaming down her face as she picked up the shattered pieces of her life and her laptop. How she sobbed over the years of work he destroyed, knowing he’d done it just to hurt her.

And I pour again.

“You think this feels bad, Timmy?” I say, my voice low, deliberate. “Imagine every tear Margaux cried over what you did to her. Every ounce of pain you caused her. Multiply it by a thousand, and you might begin to understand.”

His body slows, exhaustion setting in. His movements become jerky, weaker, but the terror in his eyes remains. He’s drenched, his skin pale and clammy now, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps whenever I pause long enough to let him recover.

A toaster oven dings in the corner. “Ah, I guess we’re onto the next stage,” I say. “Shame, I was enjoying that.” I pull the cloth off his face, letting him cough and sputter, his chest heaving like bellows. His eyes dart wildly, filled with both terror and the faint, fragile hope that it’s over.

But it’s nowhere near over.

“Look at me, Timmy,” I command, gripping his chin and forcing his gaze to mine. “This? This is mercy. Because if I wanted to, I could keep this up until you stop breathing entirely.”

His lips tremble, and his body shivers uncontrollably. He’s broken, reduced to a quivering, gasping mess on the table.

And me? I feel nothing but cold determination.

“You’ll never touch her again,” I tell him, my voice sharp as steel. “You’ll never hurt anyone again.”

I untie Timmy and move him, as he struggles, back to the chair where I restrain him once more.

Then I walk to the toaster oven and remove two piping hot pop tarts.

The sugary glaze bubbles and sizzles, a sticky, molten layer over the pastry’s jagged edges. My hands feel the heat even through the dish towel, and I can only imagine what this is going to feel like for Timmy.

I carry them over to where he’s strapped to the chair, his eyes darting nervously. “Hungry?” I ask, holding them up with exaggerated cheerfulness.

For a moment, his expression flickers—hope? Confusion? But then he sees the glint in my eye, the barely contained fury behind my forced smile, and his face collapses back into abject terror.

“Wait—what are you doing? Don’t—please—” he stammers, his voice trembling.

Without a word, I yank down his board shorts, exposing his limp, pale dick. He flinches, trying to curl away, but the restraints hold him firm. His breathing quickens, shallow and panicked, as I press one steaming pop tart against the tender underside of his cock and nestle it between his shaft and his vulnerable scrotum.

The instant the scalding pastry touches his sensitive skin, he lets out a guttural scream, thrashing against the chair. “Oh god—stop! It burns!” he howls, his voice cracking under the intensity of his pain.

The sugary glaze sticks to his flesh like molten lava, burning deeper into his skin as the intense heat spreads. His balls contract reflexively, trying to retreat from the searing contact, but there’s nowhere to go. The delicate skin of his scrotum flushes an angry, mottled red, quickly giving way to blistering patches. The underside of his dick isn’t spared—angry welts rise almost instantly, the skin shiny and raw from the heat and the syrupy coating.

The sweet smell of toasted pastry mingles with the sharp, acrid scent of burning flesh, creating a nauseating combination that makes me wrinkle my nose.

Timmy’s body spasms uncontrollably as he tries to twist away, his cries growing hoarse. "Please—please stop! It hurts! Oh god, it hurts!"

I step back, watching the pop tart adhere to his skin, the edges still steaming. His eyes are wide and glassy, filled with terror and disbelief as he struggles to process the blinding, unrelenting pain. Tears stream down his face, mixing with the sweat pouring off him.

“Burns, doesn’t it?” I say coldly, crossing my arms. “A fitting punishment for all the pain you’ve caused.”

I lean in close, letting my voice drop to a whisper. “But don’t worry, Timmy. We’re still in early stages. There’s plenty more to come.”

I take a bite of the other pop tart, and swipe the crumbs from my face. “Hmm,” I nod. “Not bad.”

“Please!” he shrieks. “Please! I apologized! I’m sorry, I’ll never hurt her or anyone again! I’ll do better.”

Even now, in his current state, he’s future faking. Promising me he can be a good person.

“Oh, Timmy,” I say, shaking my head. “Now we both know that’s not true.”

I fetch a carafe from a shelf attached to the wall on the far side of the room. The weight of it feels satisfying in my hand. It’s a plain, unassuming container—nothing to indicate its vile contents. I turn back to Timmy, whose eyes are already darting from me to the carafe, suspicion etched into his features.

“Thirsty?” I ask, feigning kindness.

Timmy shakes his head vigorously, panic flashing in his eyes. After the pop tart incident, he knows damn well I’m not here to provide hospitality.

“Too bad,” I say, a sharp edge in my voice. “You’re having this anyway.”

I step closer, and his attempts to squirm away intensify. The restraints creak under his frantic movements, but he’s going nowhere. Slowly, deliberately, I tilt the carafe, and a foul-smelling yellow liquid pours out in a steady stream, splashing down onto his chest and soaking his naked, welted body.

The stench hits immediately—sharp, acrid, and unmistakable. It fills the room, clinging to the air like an invisible film. Timmy’s reaction is instant.

“What the fuck?” he yells, sputtering as some of the liquid splashes near his mouth. “You just poured piss all over me?!”

I step back, letting the now-empty carafe dangle loosely in my hand, and shrug casually. “That’s for pissing all over Margaux,” I say, my voice calm, almost conversational. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Timmy freezes, his wide, horrified eyes locked on mine. I see it in his face—the flicker of shame that quickly gives way to terror. He knows this is more than just symbolic. He knows that I know. The things he did to Margaux, the threats he made—the ways he tried to break her spirit—are etched in my memory, and I intend to pay them back tenfold.

The sticky liquid clings to his skin, and he shivers, a combination of disgust, fear, and the cold air hitting the dampness. He grimaces as the smell intensifies, as if the weight of his own foul deeds has been physically poured back onto him.

“You’re disgusting,” he spits, trying to muster anger, but his voice trembles, betraying his fear.

“No, Timmy,” I reply, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “ You’re disgusting. This is nothing compared to what you deserve.”

He cringes, his face crumpling into a pitiful mask of dread. Deep down, he knows this isn’t the worst of it. Not even close. He knows this is just a warm-up. And he knows that I know every terrible thing he’s ever done to Margaux—the acts he tried to downplay, the ones he thought he’d gotten away with.

Timmy shifts uncomfortably in the chair, his body writhing against the restraints. The urine dries unevenly, squelching between his skin and the chair, and he grimaces at the sensation. The air between us is charged, thick with unspoken threats and Timmy’s growing realization of just how far I’m willing to go.

“There are plenty more steps to go here, Timmy,” I say, my voice low and cold. “And by the end of it, you’re going to wish you’d never laid a finger on her.”

His head drops, and for the first time, I see the fight leave him. Fear has taken hold, and he’s beginning to understand there’s no escape.

Good. This is where he belongs—powerless, humiliated, drowning in the consequences of his own actions. And I’m nowhere near done.

I step back and assess him as a hairstylist might evaluate a client. “Hmm...”

He flinches as he watches me retrieve another implement from my table of devices.

I stand over Timmy, his head restrained in a makeshift clamp I rigged to the chair. He’s still trying to wriggle out of his ties, twisting his body and bucking against the straps that bind him, but it’s futile. He’s not going anywhere.

I run my hand through his greasy hair, fingers curling around a thick lock. He flinches at the contact, his shoulders tensing beneath the straps.

“Oh relax,” I say coldly, though the command is more for me than him. My heart pounds in my chest as I grip tighter. “This is just a haircut. You’ll thank me for it later.”

Timmy’s voice is hoarse, trembling. “Man, you don’t have to do this. We can talk. I’ll apologize to Margaux. I’ll do anything. Please.”

“Too late for that,” I say, my voice devoid of sympathy. “You didn’t just hurt her. You destroyed her. And now it’s your turn.”

With a sharp yank, I rip the first chunk of hair from his scalp. Timmy screams, the sound raw and guttural. Blood seeps from the exposed follicles, dotting his pale skin with red. The sight of it ignites something primal in me—a grim satisfaction.

He thrashes harder, his cries echoing off the walls. “Stop! Please! Oh god, it hurts! It fucking hurts!”

“That’s the idea,” I say, grabbing another handful and pulling just as forcefully. The hair comes out with a sickening tear, leaving behind an uneven patch of raw, reddened scalp. Timmy’s sobs become louder, more desperate.

“Please!” he wails, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll do anything! I’ll?—”

“You’ll shut the fuck up,” I snap, cutting him off. My voice is steady, but inside, I’m buzzing. Anger, adrenaline, justice—it all swirls together in a chaotic storm. “Do you think Margaux begged? Do you think she cried when you tore her down piece by piece? Did you stop then?”

Timmy whimpers, his head jerking away from my hand, but there’s nowhere for him to go. I grab another chunk, yanking harder this time, and his body spasms with the force of his scream.

The room fills with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat. Tufts of hair fall to the floor around us like a grotesque halo, dark against the concrete. With each pull, Timmy’s scalp becomes more exposed, a patchwork of blood and skin that glistens under the harsh overhead light, revealing the full extent of his balding scalp.

“You’re pathetic,” I mutter, grabbing the last remaining section of hair. “You always were.”

“No! No, no, no!” Timmy’s voice cracks as I pull, his raw cries descending into incoherent babbling.

When it’s done, I step back to admire my work. His head is a mottled mess—bleeding, inflamed, and completely bald. He looks up at me, his tear-streaked face contorted with pain and humiliation.

I grab a hand mirror from the table and hold it in front of him. “Take a good look, Timmy,” I say, my voice dripping with contempt. “That’s what the truth looks like. Ugly. Raw. Bare. Just like you .”

He stares at his reflection, sobbing uncontrollably, his body shaking with each ragged breath. “Why?” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Why are you doing this?”

I lean in close, so he can’t look away. “Because you need to feel what you made her feel,” I say, my tone ice cold. “This particular step is for lying to the cops and saying she pulled your hair,” I explain. “But beyond that, you stripped her of everything. Her confidence. Her dignity. Her joy. Now it’s your turn.”

I knock on the door, and my two associates re-enter the room.

“Time for a little road trip,” I explain to Timmy as they remove his restraints and lead him into a neighboring room, securing him to a metal chair.

I grab my phone and cue up the playlist I’ve prepared. With a tap, Machine Gun Kelly’s ‘ Ay! ’ blasts through the speaker, the repetitive beat and lyrics filling the room like an assault on the senses.

Timmy flinches, his face twisting in disgust. “What the fuck is this?” he shouts over the noise, but I don’t answer. Instead, I give him a wink and a pat on the shoulder before stepping out, locking the door behind me.

From the control room, I watch the camera feed. Timmy’s head snaps toward the door as it opens again, and a wiry man with sunken cheeks and jittery movements steps in. The meth addict’s eyes are wild, darting around the room like a cornered animal.

“Enjoy the company,” I murmur to myself, settling into a chair to watch.

At first, the man circles Timmy like a wary predator. Timmy tries to assert dominance, barking orders at the man, but it’s clear he has no idea who he’s dealing with. The addict is already agitated, his movements erratic. It doesn’t take long for the tension to snap.

The first punch lands squarely on Timmy’s cheek, the crack of knuckles against bone loud even over the music. Timmy howls in pain, his head snapping to the side. Blood dribbles from his split lip as he spits a curse at the man.

I watch, unblinking, as the addict goes into a frenzy. His fists rain down on Timmy, who’s struggling futilely against the restraints. A sick sense of satisfaction blooms in my chest as Timmy’s face swells, his left eye darkening into a grotesque bruise. By the time the addict grabs a loose metal pipe and swings it against Timmy’s head, the once-cocky bastard is reduced to a sobbing, incoherent mess.

“Not so tough now, are you?” I mutter, watching Timmy slump in the chair, barely conscious. The addict paces the room, muttering to himself, occasionally throwing another jab at Timmy for good measure.

By morning, the music is still blaring, and the addict is curled up in the corner, twitching but spent. Timmy’s head hangs low, blood dripping from his swollen face onto his lap. His black eyes are nearly swollen shut, his lip split in multiple places, and there’s a nasty gash on his scalp that’s caked in dried blood.

I enter the room with my associates, the music cutting off abruptly. The silence is deafening, broken only by Timmy’s shallow, ragged breaths. He lifts his head weakly, squinting at me with one barely open eye.

“Look at you,” I say, crouching in front of him, a mocking smile tugging at my lips. “Black eyes, a fat lip, maybe even a fractured skull. But don’t worry, Timmy. They’re not real black eyes.”

His gaze flickers with confusion and anger, but he’s too broken to argue.

I stand, looking down at the pitiful shell of a man in front of me.

My associates bring Timmy back to the main room and re-secure him to the chair in the center of the room.

The needle gun is deceptively simple, just a handheld device with a small chamber full of thin, sharp metal needles. When triggered, it delivers rapid-fire pokes—like hundreds of tiny wasp stings—one after another. It’s not a tool meant to kill, but to break someone down piece by piece. And that’s exactly what I need right now.

I pick it up and feel the weight in my hand. It’s lighter than I expected, but there’s a heft to its purpose that resonates through me. This isn’t just about pain—it’s about control, about leveling the scales after everything he’s done to Margaux.

Timmy sits, still strapped to the chair in the center of the room, sweat dripping down his face despite the cool air. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths, and his eyes are wide, darting between me and the needle gun. He doesn’t know what it is yet, but he knows it’s not good.

“What... what is that?” His voice cracks, a mix of fear and defiance. He struggles against his restraints, testing the limits, but there’s no give. His fear is palpable, an almost electric current in the room.

“It’s nothing you haven’t earned,” I say calmly, walking toward him. I let him see the device in my hand, running a finger along the smooth metal edge. “Think of it as... a reminder. Every little jab, every little bruise—those are for Margaux. For every moment you made her question herself, every time you tore her down. Every time you needled her just to get a rise out of her and then blame her for reacting like a human.”

I press the tip of the gun against his arm, letting him feel the cold metal. He flinches, his breath hitching. “Please,” he stammers, his voice shaking now. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do.” I press the trigger.

The first burst of needles punctures his skin, and Timmy screams, his body jerking violently against the restraints. Tiny red dots bloom across his forearm like a field of angry roses. He thrashes, but the chair holds him steady.

“Stop! Please, stop!” he howls, tears streaming down his face. The sound is guttural, raw, filled with a desperation I didn’t think he was capable of.

But I don’t stop. I move the gun to his other arm, then his shoulders, his thighs, his calves. Every inch of exposed skin becomes a canvas for his suffering. The room fills with the rhythmic hum of the needle gun and his screams, a twisted symphony of pain and retribution.

His reactions are visceral—his face contorts in agony, veins standing out on his neck as he tries to squirm away. His eyes are bloodshot, his throat raw from screaming. He begs, pleads, curses me, cycling through every stage of desperation.

And me? I’m calm. Detached, almost. Each burst of needles is a release, a catharsis. For every bruise that blooms on his skin, I imagine the emotional scars he left on Margaux. This is justice, not cruelty. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

When I finally stop, his body sags in the chair, trembling uncontrollably. His skin is a patchwork of red and purple, tiny puncture wounds peppering his arms, legs, and torso. His breathing is shallow, his head lolling to the side as if even holding it up is too much effort.

I crouch down, gripping his chin and forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, but there’s still a flicker of something there—fear, anger, humiliation.

“Now you know,” I say, my voice low and steady. “Now you know what it’s like to be poked and prodded, to feel like every part of you is under attack. But don’t worry, Timmy. We’re nearly at the end. Only a few more stages to go now.”

I let go of his chin, standing up and turning away. Behind me, he sputters, his voice weak but full of venom. “You’re a monster,” he rasps.

I pause, glancing back at him. “Maybe,” I admit. “But I’m a monster with a purpose. And you? You’re the parasite no one will miss.”

I walk back to my table and grab another item. I hold the firework in my hand, turning it over slowly as Timmy watches, his eyes wide with terror. He’s trembling, his wrists still bound to the table, sweat dripping from his brow. The room is silent, save for the faint hum of the old lightbulb swinging overhead.

“Do you know what this is, Timmy?” I ask, my voice calm, almost conversational.

His gaze flickers between the firework and my face, panic etched into every line of his expression. “You don’t have to do this,” he pleads, his voice shaky. “I’ll do or say whatever you want. Just please?—”

“Oh, you’ll say what I want,” I reply, my tone sharpening. “But not because you think it’ll save you. You’re going to say it because you’ll finally understand what it feels like to face the truth.”

I kneel in front of him, holding the firework at eye level. “You’ve spent your whole life looking at yourself as the hero, haven’t you? The misunderstood victim, the guy who just couldn’t catch a break.” I lean in closer, lowering my voice. “But the world sees you for what you are now. A liar. A coward. A destroyer of everything good you ever touched.”

Timmy shakes his head frantically, tears welling up. “That’s not true. I loved her. I?—”

“You loved her?” I spit, slamming my fist onto the table beside him. “You tore her down, day after day, and called it love. You made her question her worth, her sanity, her very existence. And now, you’re going to see what you’ve done.”

I light the firework, letting the flare illuminate the space between us.

Timmy’s eyes widen as he sees me light the fuse. His panic sets in instantly, his head jerking back and forth, his voice a mixture of pleading and screaming. "No, no, no! You don’t have to do this! Please!"

The sparks dance, casting an eerie glow on Timmy’s face. He flinches, squeezing his eyes shut as though bracing for impact.

“Open your eyes,” I command. “Look at me.”

He hesitates, his breaths shallow and rapid, before finally obeying. His gaze locks with mine, his bravado now absent.

“You’ve spent years making people feel small,” I say. “Now, you get to feel what it’s like to be powerless.”

I hold the small firework steady, positioning it on a stand just inches from the bridge of his nose, and step back, watching the fuse hiss and sputter as it burns down. His thrashing becomes frantic, his face flushed with terror, veins bulging in his neck as he strains against his restraints.

The firework explodes with a deafening bang, a sudden burst of light and force that fills the room with smoke and the acrid scent of burned flesh. The sound echoes in my ears as the immediate aftermath reveals the damage.

Timmy’s head jerks back violently, his screams rising to a pitch I didn’t think humanly possible. Blood gushes from the center of his face, pouring from a deep, jagged wound where the firework erupted. The skin around his eyes is scorched and blackened, the heat having singed away his eyebrows and lashes.

Raw, blistering burns spread outward from the point of impact, the skin peeling and bubbling grotesquely.

One of his eyes is completely swollen shut, a purple-red mass of damaged tissue. The other is bloodshot and wide open, darting around in panic, still black from the meth head’s beating, struggling to comprehend the horror of what just happened. His nose is an unrecognizable mess, the cartilage smashed and the skin shredded by the force of the blast.

“Oh what?” I sneer, thinking about all the times he diminished Margaux’s pain. “It wasn’t even a very big firework. I could have used a festival ball instead.”

Timmy’s screams turn guttural, wet with the blood pooling in his throat. He coughs and chokes, writhing in pain as tears, mingled with soot and blood, streak down his distorted face.

“No... no! NO!” he shrieks, his voice hoarse and broken. “What did you do to me?! You... you ruined me!”

“I made you wear your sins,” I reply evenly, my own voice calm, almost detached. “This is what you really are, Timmy. Ugly. Destroyed. Just like the people you hurt.”

His sobs grow louder, his body trembling violently in the chair. He turns his head away from the mirror, but I grab his chin, forcing him to look. “No escape, Timmy. You don’t get to hide from yourself anymore.”

Inside, a dark satisfaction brews. He deserves this. Every moment of pain, every ounce of terror. But there’s also a weight that settles on me—a quiet acknowledgment of how far I’ve gone, of what I’ve become in the name of justice for Margaux.

Timmy’s cries grow weaker, his body slumping in the chair, defeated and disfigured. The room smells of smoke, blood, and burned flesh, the air heavy with the consequences of my actions.

And yet, I don’t feel an ounce of regret.

I grab the mirror I’d placed nearby and hold it in front of him. “Take a good look.”

I force Timmy to confront his grotesque reflection, his face pale and streaked with tears. His lips quiver as he takes in the devastation on his own features—the weight of what he’s become. For a moment, there’s silence. Then, a sob escapes his throat, raw and guttural.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Don’t you dare,” I growl. “This isn’t about what you meant. It’s about what you did . This is the face of the man who destroyed lives, who left scars on Margaux that may never heal. This is who you are, Timmy.”

I set the mirror down, my own emotions swirling. Satisfaction? Maybe. But it’s not clean or pure. It’s tangled with anger, exhaustion, and a sadness that even justice can’t erase.

“You wanted to be seen,” I whisper. “Now, you are.”

With that, I leave the room, his ragged sobs trailing behind me.

When I finally step back, he’s a shadow of the smug, entitled man who tormented Margaux. His face is streaked with tears, his body covered in welts and scratches, his spirit broken.

But I’m not done.

I grab a handful of shells from the table—a mix of jagged and smooth, their edges sharp enough to cut. The same shells Margaux had collected during rare moments of peace, moments Timmy had managed to ruin. They feel heavy in my hand, weighted with the significance of what they represent.

Timmy’s eyes widen as he sees them, darting between the shells and my face. He shakes his head violently, his muffled protests spilling out as incoherent sounds.

“Open up,” I say, my voice calm but firm. He doesn’t comply, so I grab his jaw with one hand, digging my fingers into his cheeks until he has no choice but to part his lips. He’s shaking now, his whole body trembling as I push the first shell into his mouth.

It scrapes against his teeth as I shove another in, then another. The jagged edges dig into his gums, drawing blood that pools and mingles with his saliva. His muffled gagging sounds fill the room, panic and pain radiating off him like heat.

“Keep going,” I say, almost to myself, as I cram more in. His cheeks bulge grotesquely, and blood seeps from the corners of his mouth. Tears stream down his face, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe around the shards pressing into his tongue and throat.

Timmy thrashes against the restraints, his muffled cries growing more frantic with each passing second. But I don’t stop.

I grab a roll of duct tape and tear off a strip, pressing it over his mouth to seal the shells inside. “There,” I say, stepping back to admire my work. He looks pathetic, his face a mask of pain and terror. His muffled screams are barely audible now, his eyes wild with desperation.

“This,” I say, leaning in close, “is for every word you spat at her. Every insult, every lie, every cruel twist of the knife. You don’t get to speak anymore, Timmy. You don’t deserve to.”

He jerks his head, trying to dislodge the tape, his breathing ragged and labored. Blood dribbles down his chin, staining the duct tape as his muffled sobs turn into choking sounds.

I step back, arms crossed, watching him struggle. There’s no satisfaction in this—not the kind that feels good. But there’s justice. Cold, unrelenting justice.

“You’re quiet now,” I say, my voice low. “Funny how that works. You always had so much to say when you were tearing her apart. Where’s that big mouth of yours now, huh?”

I wheel over a full-length mirror and force him to look at himself again. “This is who you are, Timmy. Ugly on the outside and the inside. And when I’m done, the whole world will see it too.”

I hit play on a projector, showing a montage of Margaux’s pain—her bruises, her tears, her laughter forced through gritted teeth. This is almost over, and I need him to remember his crimes, and why we’re here. But we’re not quite done yet.

And there’s only one thing that will hurt him more.

I show footage of his father, bound to the chair the night before, forced to face the evidence of his son’s evilness. As a creative flourish, I faked a recording so his father’s voice echoes in the background, calling him a disappointment. A failure.

For the first time, real fear flickers in Timmy’s eyes.

But even in this moment of imagined triumph, I know it’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

Dragging Timmy is easy at this point, and I move him back to the table where I secure him to the cold metal surface.

I walk to the corner of the room and pick up a chainsaw.

Timmy’s eyes grow wide as I turn on the equipment, the chains whirring loudly. He moans, shaking his head, nonverbally begging me to stop.

“You were just fine threatening to chop Margaux’s head off multiple times,” I shrug. “Seems only fitting you get the treatment you promised her.”

I aim for Timmy’s right arm, the whirring chains slicing through his soft tissue, muscles and bones with ease.

He roars in pain, even around the shells, and then grows quiet as his body enters a state of shock, temporarily dulling the excruciating sensation. His breath grows shallow, and he blinks repeatedly as if trying to process what just happened.

I move around to the other side of the table. “This is also for not being able to keep your hands to yourself,” I explain.

I slice off his second arm, blood spraying everywhere with each heartbeat. He screams in agony and panic, his cries quickly turning hoarse. He hyperventilates as he tries to breathe away the pain.

He screams through the tape, incoherent now, desperate for me to stop. His eyes are wide, and his head moves rapidly from side to side as he attempts to comprehend what’s happening.

He shifts on the table, a feeble attempt to escape.

But Margaux was desperate for him to stop his constant attacks, and he never did—so why should I?

Moving to the end of the table, the vibrations of the chainsaw reverberate through my hands as I sever his lower limbs one by one.

His body twitches uncontrollably due to the sudden severing of nerves.

The heat and scent of blood in the room are impossible to ignore.

He gasps as his removed limbs also twitch on the floor, residual nerve activity making it look as if they’re alive independent of Timmy. I laugh. It is kind of funny.

There’s not a lot of time left.

He knows it. His eyes are flat, dead.

He sobs as he continues to bleed out, his mind struggling to process the trauma.

I almost feel pity for Timmy at this point as he continues to thrash, limbless, beaten, broken. What he’s experienced today is brutal. But the crazy part is, all of these things are either actual things he did to Margaux, threatened to do, implied he could do, or symbolic representations of the psychological and emotional torment he put her through on a daily basis.

He shrieks as I take my final slice with the chainsaw and slice his dick off. It falls to the floor with a dull thud.

I turn toward the wood chipper, running my hand along its edge. My breath comes faster as I imagine the scene that will follow.

But as I reach for him, I stop. A chill runs down my spine as I realize this isn’t the moment I’ve been waiting for. Not yet.

The room dissolves, and I’m back in my workshop, staring at the plans I’ve spent weeks perfecting. It’s not real—not yet. But it will be.

And when it is, Timmy will wish for death long before it comes.