Chapter 28 #3
This time, the whip catches him across the cheek.
The spikes hook into his flesh, shredding his skin like wet paper.
Blood sprays across the floor in a hot, crimson mist. He collapses completely, sobbing and thrashing on the dirt, but the women holding his chains yank him upright, forcing him to take the punishment.
I go into a fucking frenzy. I whip him randomly—his thighs, his chest, his stomach—each strike leaving a shredded, gaping hole in his body.
The guests are absolutely loving it; I can hear them cheering, some of them leaning forward with wide, hungry eyes, their masked faces twisted in sadistic glee.
They’re practically salivating at the sight of this piece of filth being dismantled.
I bring the whip down hard across his lower back, and I feel a sickening thud.
The spikes have gone too deep, burying themselves into his muscle and bone.
Thomas lets out a strangled, wheezing shriek, his body locking up in a spasm of pain.
I don't let go. I plant my foot on his shoulder and yank the whip back with a violent, guttural grunt.
Squelch.
The spikes rip out of his flesh with a wet, sucking sound, bringing chunks of skin and muscle with them.
A spray of blood splatters across my dress and my face, warm and metallic.
I wipe a streak of it across my cheek, laughing like a fucking lunatic.
I don't stop. I keep swinging, my arm aching, my breath coming in ragged gasps, until my muscles are screaming and I'm drenched in his blood.
I only stop when I'm physically exhausted, my chest heaving.
I toss the blood-soaked whip back to the woman behind me and reach for the second weapon. It’s a pair of heavy, rusted pliers, the kind used for pulling nails from old wood.
I kneel beside him, my eyes cold. He’s barely conscious, his body a map of shredded meat and open wounds. I grab his hand, pinning it to the floor.
"You liked taking things away from people, didn't you, Papa?" I whisper.
I clamp the pliers onto his pinky finger and twist.
The sound of the bone snapping is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
Thomas screams—a high-pitched, pathetic wail that fills the room.
I don't stop at one. I move to the next, and the next, crushing the joints, ripping the nails out by the roots.
He starts begging, his voice cracking, sobbing for help, pleading with the guests, with God, with anyone to make it stop.
"Help me! Please! Ophelia, stop! I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!"
"Sorry doesn't bring back the dead, you cunt," I hiss, giving one last, brutal twist to his thumb before tossing the pliers aside.
I'm done playing. I stand up and take the double-sided axe. It feels heavy and right in my hands, a relic of absolute justice. The women holding the chains drag him, sobbing and bleeding, toward the guillotine. They shove his neck into the wooden collar, locking it tight. He’s shaking so hard the whole structure vibrates.
I walk toward him, the axe dragging slightly on the floor. He looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot and streaming with tears.
"Ophelia... please," he whimpers, his voice a broken shadow. "Have mercy on your father. I gave you life... please, just this once..."
I stop right in front of him. I lean in close, so he can smell the blood on my skin.
"You didn't give me a life, Thomas," I whisper, my voice devoid of any emotion. "You gave me a nightmare. And now, I'm waking up."
He lets out a scream.
I step back, plant my feet, and swing the axe with every ounce of hatred I've carried for seven years.
THWACK.
The blade shears through his neck in one clean, violent motion.
Blood erupts like a geyser, spraying everywhere—the stage, the floor, and the front row of guests.
His head detaches and rolls across the floor, bouncing once before coming to a stop right at the feet of my grandparents.
They look down at the severed head with absolute indifference, as if it were nothing more than a piece of rotten fruit.
The room explodes. The guests clap wildly, and my family joins in, their faces filled with a grim, satisfied triumph.
"More champagne! More scotch!" one of the guests bellows, his voice booming. "A toast! A piece of filth has been sent screaming his way to hell!"
I look over and see my grandpa. He doesn't say a word, but he raises his glass to me, a silent acknowledgment of the debt paid in blood. I smile—a real, genuine smile—and hand the axe back to the staff.
Rhys is there in an instant. He wraps his massive arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest, shielding me from the noise and the gore. He holds me so hard I can feel his heartbeat thumping against my back.
"It's over, Ophelia," he whispers into my ear. "It's finally over."
I lean back into him and close my eyes. For the first time since I was twelve years old, the ghosts are quiet.
The screaming in my head has stopped. I feel empty, but it's a clean emptiness—a void where the pain used to be.
I feel light, almost floating, as the weight of an almost decade of trauma finally slides off my shoulders.
I am no longer the girl in the toy shop.
I am no longer the ghost. I am simply Ophelia, and I am finally, bloody finally, free.