Ethan
She didn’t crack. Not even close. She just seemed—bored. I scratched my head. No fear. No alliances. If anything, she seemed to enjoy tormenting the other two. I didn’t blame her. They were irritating without the gags.
“Oi, dickhead,” she shouted. “Just kill me already. I’m happy to go first if it gets me away from these two.”
“What are you doing?”
“Oh my god. Shut up. You’re going to get us all killed.”
“I’ll pay you good money to off me,” Anne continued, as if they hadn’t spoken.
I liked an animated Anne, not a dead one. There was no coming back from dead, and bodies stiffened up too quickly to be of much use. Necrophilia wasn’t for the weak.
It was time to pay them a visit. I left my phone on the coffee table and made my way to the basement. I changed into scrubs first—modifications were on the agenda today.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
“You hollered?” I asked, turning calmly to close the door behind me.
She knelt at the front of her cage, hands wrapped around the bars. That’s when I caught them—a faded mesh of criss-crosses across her wrists. She knew where my eyes had landed, because she lowered her hands, folding them away as though she’d accidentally revealed something true.
Old scars. I moved closer. No fresh cuts. Her eyes were fixed on the space between us. I wanted to catalogue every one of them. Every line she’d ever delivered to herself.
She raised her head.
“What are you waiting for? Kill me.”
No emotion in those ice-blue eyes. No sadness, fear, or even weariness. The weariness always caught them in the end—days, weeks, months, they all lost the will to live eventually.
“Do you need me to show you how it’s done?” she taunted.
I scoffed and turned away, instructing my playlist to begin.
The Bach-Gounod Ave Maria filled the basement, instantly soothing. It had been a long time since I’d felt anything—but today, I was happy. I hummed along as I prepared the table.
Everything was ready. Scalpel, a variety of scissors, gauze, mixing bowl, kidney tray. On the far side, a curved needle already threaded with suture.
“No,” Eva whispered.
Massenet’s Tha?s began to play. Another beautiful piece.
I turned and rolled Anne’s cage into position—far enough to give her a clear sightline to Eva’s chair, close enough that nothing would be lost on her. Then I crossed back and unlocked Eva’s cage.
“No. No. No.”
She scrambled to the back, eyes wide. I waited.
“Take Anne,” she cried, glaring sideways at her. “Take her instead.”
I crouched, reached in, and gripped her hair. She grabbed for the cage door as I hauled her out—I yanked hard enough to feel strands give way—and dragged her to the chair.
Anne watched from her cage. Those ice-blue eyes were laser-focused on every movement.
Not horror. Not fear. Not even curiosity. What shone from Anne’s eyes was a manic ardour. She swallowed as though her mouth had gone dry.
You’re evil. No one could love you. Not even your mother.
The thought came—and left again before it could take hold.
I strapped Eva in. Her screams distorted the music, but I didn’t retaliate.
Anne was watching.
I carefully pulled on my gloves, studying Eva’s soon-to-be altered face. The strap across her forehead held her still—any movement during the incision would ruin the design I had in mind.
I probed both sides of her jaw, feeling the joints, trailing my fingers along the line I intended to follow. Once decided, I lifted the scalpel and cut from the corner of her lips to the point I’d marked.
Flesh split. Blood oozed. Eva screamed, and Gareth began to cry.
I moved to the other side and made the same incision. Not as clean—my left hand was never quite as precise—but who would notice?
Anne might.
I stepped back to admire the cuts.
“There,” I murmured. “You won’t talk as much now.”
She was in shock. Before she could react, I moved to her side and worked my hands into her mouth, prising her jaw open. Removing the elasticity of the surrounding skin first would make the next part considerably easier. I increased the pressure steadily. She moaned, eyes wide and streaming.
The muscles began to give way. A dull pop signalled the dislocation.
I closed my eyes as Tchaikovsky came on.
When I opened them, Eva’s jaw hung limp. I laughed, delighted.
So wonderful. Beautiful.
I began to clean the wounds—enough to clear the blood so I could work clearly—then fed the curved needle in and out of her cheek, using both hands to keep the edges even.
The hours I’d spent practising on silicone had never been satisfying.
Derelict buildings had served me better in those early years; real flesh, real adipose tissue, the needle finding its own rhythm in a way silicone never allowed.
I reached the corner of her lip and double-stitched it. It would hurt more when stretched, but that was rather the point.
Bright lights. Music. Gareth sniffling. Eva stitched and silent.
Anne.
My lips tightened. I left the needle in Eva’s cheek and turned.
My heart skipped.
She was smiling. Soft, unguarded—almost as if she wasn’t aware of it herself. When she felt my eyes on her, her gaze shifted from Eva to me, and the smile faded as she began to study my face instead.
I recognised that look. I’d seen it at work—colleagues, patients, admiring the outcome of something difficult done well.
But in Anne’s eyes there was more.
Not adoration.
Respect.
No one will ever—
Fuck off and rot in hell, mother.