13. Sid #2
She tries moving her body away from the heat, twisting and turning, but I only follow her moves.
Smiling in satisfaction, I understand why both my dad and Blaise are drawn to this method.
Mom once told me Dad took a flamethrower to a bunch of people in a cult her birth father started, then Dad would tell me my favorite comfort story about how he had his mom burn herself alive in a giant fire off the coast of North Carolina.
Dad used intimidation, forcing ol’ Granny to take every step backward into her own death.
It’s how my parents met, because their parents got married and Mom’s dad turned out to be a crazy fucking cult leader, could you imagine?
Blaise will spend hours diligently burning people and corpses, and it calms him, the flames, the heat, watching the skin contort and melt and bones turn into dust. It’s fascinating when you think about it.
I fucking love my family.
Focusing back on the bitch, no evidence of the brand remains, only burnt and boiled skin. Letting go of the button, the flame stops and I turn the gas off, whispering, “This is only the beginning of our fun together.”
Moans of pain continue to leave her. “You look fucking stupid.” She tries to take a dig at me mid-scream, but I roll my eyes. I couldn’t give a shit.
Tossing the torch back to the table, I grab a scalpel this time. I don’t care to listen to her speak any further. Plus, this ladder is getting annoying, the pitfall of being short, I suppose.
Squeezing her lips between my fingers, I take the sharp medical grade scalpel and pierce her skin before I start slicing around her lips. I go deep, ensuring the cut is clean for display. Pest tries to shake me off by moving her head, but it doesn’t work. This isn’t my first time. Stupid bitch.
Once freed, I toss them behind me to collect before I leave.
Blood is now gushing out from the incision, covering her white teeth and pouring down her exposed and burnt chest.
Giggling to myself, I think it’s time for my next surprise.
But before I can set it up, my phone rings.
Who the fuck would call me right now? I wonder, completely forgetting initiation could happen at any moment.
Rushing to it, I answer. It’s Dad. I skip all formalities because I am fucking busy. “Is this important?”
“Where are you? Your car is gone,” he questions, and I roll my eyes.
“At my slaughterhouse, and you are ruining the moment. I have to go.”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I go to hang up, when I hear, “I’ll come by.”
Huffing out a breath, I plead, “Not this time. Please.” I need this, it’s closure for me and the family. Closure he doesn’t even know he needs. And I would like to keep it that way until I’m done and can speak to him in person.
Dad pauses, so I look at the phone thinking he has hung up and ignored me, but then he responds, “Fuck, fine. But know I’m really fucking bored and your mother will have to tolerate the consequences of that,” before hanging up.
That was easier than I thought, thankfully.
Almost too easy, but I won’t question it.
Placing my phone down the front of my top, I continue setting up my showstopper, something I found antiquing years ago and never thought I would get the opportunity to use, until now.
The Judas cradle.
The one I found is made of metal, though some are made of wood.
It sits on four legs, reinforced in the middle for stability and weight, and topped with a beautiful, shiny, sharp pyramid as a seat.
I position it under her bottom, the top pushing slightly into the fabric of her pants and helping the hooks at her hands hold her up. She shakes violently, her words slurred. “No, no, no,”
I think she means, yes, yes, yes , because this is absolutely happening.
One, two, three, you’re going to die bitch.
I smile to myself at the fun mantra I’ve just created.
Once satisfied with the positioning on the Judas Cradle, I find my phone in my top and click the sacred red button the IT guys installed.
The red button controls a levy system I had constructed, which lowers our friend here, placing all her weight onto the sharp pyramid top, the lower I drop her.
I watch the slow process with great excitement.
Fuck, music. Scrolling through my playlist, I find the most iconic song for this moment, “10 Things I Hate About You” by Leah Kate.
Pressing play, the guitar starts, my head bobs, and then it starts to pick up.
Screaming along with the chorus, I hop around the screaming bitch before me.
At one point I change the words and shout, “Daddy issues.”
Circling her back, the point is well implanted into her rectum, destroying her internal organs.
I smile as blood begins to stain down her white pant legs, because who wears fucking white?
Stopping, I look down at myself and laugh at being dressed in head-to-toe white.
But I want her bloodstains, it’s a badge of honor, something I will wear with pride all night long, then put it into storage should I ever want to remember this night.
Reaching her front side, I notice her eyes are now bloodshot, and more crimson flows uncontrollably from her mouth down her exposed torso, but it’s not enough. I need more.
Finding my bejeweled gas mask, I slide it on over my face and snatch my rib cutters and decide it's time to play.
Typically, this tool is used on the ribs, hence the name, but not today.
No, I need more blood, more pain, more body parts to take home with me.
Clicking the red button on my phone once more stops her from lowering any further.
Uncomfortable, her hips wiggle and heels fidget against the dirt.
Still tied at the ankles, and tightly contained on all ends, I inform her, “Sweetie, this is how you’re going to die.
Nothing is going to get you out of this predicament. Now, please, stay fucking still.”
More cries from the desperate pest echo around us and I am so fucking over it. Tossing my phone back in my top, my work here is not yet done.
Stepping forward, I brave her teeth and stick my fingers inside her wide-open mouth. Gripping her slippery, lying, horrible-at-oral tongue, I swiftly move in with my rib cutters and cut the muscle in one, clean slice. More blood splatters, the majority of it landing on my mask and chest.
My head tilts as she begins choking on herself, and soon her lungs and stomach will drown from ingesting too much of her own blood.
Stepping back just in time, she vomits on herself.
Lifting my mask, I look at her in disgust. “Show some class, would you?” Her eyes seem like they could explode out of her head at any moment, but it doesn’t deter from the fact that I hate fucking vomit.
It stinks and really is the grossest shit to clean up.
Annoyed, I scurry around and reach for the hooks. Unlatching her cuffs, I watch in slow motion as her body falls backward. Her pelvis remains elevated and she now resembles a human version of a pyramid.
Smiling, I pick up the bone saw I dropped some time ago and place my mask back on over my face. I must keep my makeup somewhat fresh for later, after all. Bubbles form at the pest’s mouth. She’s choking, but not fast enough for my liking.
Placing the saw between her teeth, I stare into her eyes and cut.
At first, it’s easy, just skin, then the resistance greets me, her jaw hinge, and I apply more pressure.
Placing my bandaged foot on her forehead to keep her steady, I continue, noting the progress I’ve made as the bottom part of her jaw starts slacking to the side.
My hands are covered, dripping in warm, thick life, life which is draining from her rapidly.
My saw reaches her ear, cue for me to angle down and continue my cut, completely removing the bottom portion.
This part is a tad thicker, but I’ve never met an adversary I couldn’t beat.
At some point she stops struggling, her body becoming slack and her jaw now fallen to my feet. Dropping the saw, I lift my mask and hands in victory. Because I always fucking win. I always get what I want and nothing can ever get in my way.
My chest heaves, catching my breath from the intense arm workout I just did, then my phone vibrates against my heart. What timing. Blowing my hair out of my face, I pull my phone out of the top of my dress and see it’s Papa. Opening the message, it’s a pin to the location. It’s go time.
Looking down at the liar, I’m almost positive she’s dead. If not, she will be very soon, between the pain up her ass and the lack of face with a side of burnt flesh, the odds are stacked against her.
Skipping to my car, I look back at her once more, waving. “Bye, bitch, I have a party to attend.”