Chapter Seven #3
Charlotte is witnessing a side of me no one has ever seen before.
No one that’s still alive, anyway. I can almost hear the wheels turning as she tries to reconcile the darkness inside the man in front of her with the man who had just taken care of her.
But I can't bring myself to care about her judgement right now.
"Charlotte," I say her name softly. I know she is likely frightened of me after what she's seen. She's about to witness a whole lot more before the night is through.
She doesn't answer, just keeps staring. I turn to face her fully. "Charlotte," I say her name again, this time with more force behind it. Her eyes snap from me to Corey, then back to me .
"I left a tool bag and a can of gasoline on the back porch. I need you to go get them for me. Be careful of your wrist, though. I don’t want you hurting yourself more than you already are."
She doesn't move. All she manages is a soft, "I can't." It's like she's unable to get any more words out.
"Yes, you can. Get up off the floor,” I say firmly, willing her to find her own strength. I want her to know how strong she really is. “He didn't break you. You’re stronger than that. You sure as hell don't belong on the floor. Stand up so you can look down on this piece of shit."
She nods slightly and hesitantly rises to her feet. She still doesn't move, she just stands there in the same spot, staring at Corey crying and moaning on the floor. Her expression slowly turns to one of anger. Good. She needs that fire burning inside of her.
"Charlotte," I say her name again to bring her attention back to me. I need to keep her focused. “Look at me.” Her eyes lock on to mine, and I see the turmoil warring inside of her. "Go get the gas and tool bag from the back porch. Now!"
Finally, she seems to snap out of her shocked state and begins to walk towards the back of the house. It takes her less than a minute to retrieve the tool bag, and she quickly goes back for the gas can.
I dig through the tool bag, finding what I need. My fingers curl around the rusty garden shears I took from the garage. I pull them out, setting them aside and grab some rope. Charlotte reappears with the gas can, setting it down by the doorway.
I motion towards the corner of the room. "Bring that wooden chair over here."
She drags the wooden chair with her good arm across the floor, positioning it near Corey's feet.
I lift him, settling him onto the chair with a thud.
He's going in and out of consciousness, so I take my time tying him to the chair, ensuring he won't be going anywhere.
First, I bind his hands behind his back.
Then I loop the rope around his torso, pulling it tight to restrict his movement.
Before I secure his legs, I pull his jeans down to his ankles, then tie his legs to the chair.
I stand back and take in the pathetic sight. Corey, slumped in the chair, his head hanging low. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. His skinny legs are spread wide, tied to each leg of the chair, exposing his limp dick.
Charlotte steps closer, her small voice breaking the silence.
"What are you going to do?" I turn to face her and see the tears running down, staining her cheeks.
Removing my gloves, I tuck them into my back pocket.
Raising both hands to her face, I gently wipe away the traces of her tears with my thumbs.
"I'm going to make him pay."
She only nods.
"You can go wait for me in the kitchen. You don't need to watch what I'm about to do." I give her an out, an escape from what's about to unfold.
"I want to stay with you."
This is a surprise. I didn't expect her to want to witness what I’m going to do to Corey. She's already seen enough tonight to put me in prison for at least the next 25 to 30 years. Once she sees what happens next—it's going to change things for both of us.
"Are you sure?" I ask, searching her face for any hint of hesitation. "Death is something you can't unsee or hide from. It marks your soul." I tap my finger softly on her temple. "It will follow you here. Lurking in the dark corners of your mind. You'll never outrun it. It becomes a part of you."
"I'm sure."
What the hell am I going to do with this girl? I can't just let her walk away after this; she knows too much. She's innocent in all of this, but a loose end I can't afford to have .
Corey groans, slowly regaining consciousness. His eyes widening as they land on the garden shears in my hand. Holding the shears casually, I consider what needs to be done. I walk over to him and look down at his shriveled dick. No way am I touching that thing, even with gloves on.
I grab a pair of pliers from my tool bag, then hesitate, realizing I'll need both hands for the shears.
Charlotte seems to pick up on my dilemma.
Without a word, she takes the pliers from my hand and clamps them down on the head of his dick with a force that makes even me flinch.
His flesh tears easily, but she continues, stretching it out, holding him firmly in place as he begins to sob.
I raise an eyebrow at her unexpected action, but she simply shrugs.
"You had a problem. I fixed it." she says as if it's no big deal. "I think I owe you."
"Are you sure about this? It's not going to be pretty." I can't have her regretting this or blaming me for it later. This is her choice, and she needs to own it.
"You're the one stalling, Voss. Not me."
Damn, this girl's got guts. I smile at her response, feeling a strange sense of pride in the brave, and slightly twisted, girl standing beside me.
She's made of tougher stuff than I initially realized.
I'm surprised by her willingness to participate, but at the same time, I'm not.
Whatever it is about her that draws me in, it's alluring, and honestly, a little fucking creepy. I like it.
I roll my shoulders, then position the rusty blades of the shears around the base of his shaft. He whimpers, shaking his head, eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape that doesn't exist.
"I didn't—I mean, I just—please, don't. I'll do anything! I’m sorry!" He's pleading now, tears streaming down his face .
“You’re sorry? Well you should have just said that to begin with.” I drop the shears and Corey lets out an audible sigh of relief. I grab an old shop rag from my tool bag and shove it in Corey’s mouth. “That’s better. I couldn’t give a shit less if you’re sorry.”
With a swift, sharp motion, I clamp down on the shears, and Corey's scream pierces the air.
The restraints dig into his skin as his body jerks and convulses.
Blood pours out, warm and thick, spilling onto the floor with a sickening, wet sound.
I apply more pressure trying to sever his cock from his body.
The blades of the garden shears are so dull and rusted, I can't cut through the flesh on the first try, or even the second.
Typically, I would find this fucking annoying.
But in this case, the dull, rusty shears only add to Corey's agony. It’s perfect.
It couldn't have worked out better if I had planned it.
Don't get me wrong, having your dick cut off is going to hurt like a motherfucker no matter how it's done.
But these shears aren't even cutting, they are just tearing and ripping through the flesh, little by little.
I can feel the resistance with each squeeze.
Corey's muffled screams turn into a high-pitched, desperate wail.
I have to work the blades back and forth, sawing through flesh.
He is learning the hard way that actions have consequences. As his blood pools on the floor, I know that justice, in its rawest form, is being served.
Finally, it's done. What's left of Corey's dick, severed from his body, hangs in the air from the tip of the pliers. Charlotte holds the bloody pliers in front of her, her hand shaking. Her eyes are glued to the detached appendage, and I know she's remembering what she’s endured at his hands.
"You can drop it to the floor," I tell her, wanting to spare her any further trauma.
But she surprises me once again. "No, I don't think I will. He shoved this into my mouth." Her expression hardens, waving the pliers around as she speaks. Corey’s shriveled dick is still gripped tightly within the tip. "I think I should return the favor."
"Charlotte, you don't have to do this," I say, giving her one last chance to back out. Part of me wants her to walk away, to stay clean and untouched by the darkness. Another small part of me wants to see her embrace it.
"I know I don't have to," she replies, her eyes never leaving Corey's terrified face. "But I want to."
Before I can say another word, she steps up to Corey, ripping the rag from his mouth.
Taking advantage of his open mouth as he draws in a breath, she shoves what is left of his dick deep into his throat with the pliers.
Corey's eyes go wide, as he begins to gag and choke.
Tears streak his face as he tries to spit out the mutilated remains of his cock.
I put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”
I grab the can of gas and begin to pour a circle around Corey. "Thanks for having me over, asshole. It's been fun, but it’s time to end this little party."
Motioning to the red bag discarded on the floor, I say, "Charlotte, pick up your backpack and start walking towards the back of the house."
With her safely behind me, I get my tool bag and begin to pour a trail of gasoline across the floor, backing out of the room as I create a flammable path of destruction that leads to the back porch. I empty the entire can, the pungent smell of gasoline filling the air.
From my pocket, I pull out my lighter and ignite a piece of cardboard I find lying on the porch floor.
I watch the flame dance across its surface for a moment before tossing it onto the line of gasoline.
The flame instantly catches, devouring the gasoline, racing across the floor of the house towards Corey.
I remove my gloves, tossing them into the fire. The flames quickly consume them, adding to the fiery chaos that now engulfs the house. I take the backpack from Charlotte, feeling her hands tremble as she passes it over.
"Pull your hood up," I instruct her, already reaching to pull my own hood over my head. "Tuck your hair inside, try to keep your face hidden." I adjust my hood, ensuring my face is mostly obscured by its shadow. Taking Charlotte's hand, I pull her along with me, moving swiftly back to my truck.
She watches with wide eyes as I kick the license plate, dislodging it from my truck and leaving a dent in the bumper. A small, but necessary sacrifice.
"Why are you doing that?" Her question amuses me.
She shows more concern over damaging my truck than she does about what we just did inside that house.
I killed a man, and she was a willing participant.
I ignore her question and guide her to the passenger side of my truck, watching as she climbs in.
As I make my way around to the driver's side, I can feel her eyes on me.
I settle in behind the wheel and turn to face her.
"If they check traffic cams, they won't get my plate number.
It's a safety precaution. Just in case," I explain.
"If I get pulled over, we say I accidentally backed into something, dented the bumper and the license plate fell off.
I plan on getting it fixed soon, along with the bumper. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it.” She nods, her eyes wide, taking in every word. "Where are we going now?"
"Our place.”