CHAPTER SIX
When I return to La Douleur Folle, all is quiet. It is early evening, and although I prefer to work under the cover of darkness, I’m not averse to starting early.
I go up to my room, taking the supplies with me. It takes me a few trips, and no one is there to see me or judge me.
The boy is asleep in bed and wakes up on the final trip when I bring the planks in.
“What is that for?” he asks, his voice dry and raspy. I get out a bottle of water and bring it to his lips.
“Shh, drink.”
He drinks happily. He’s pissed himself, but the stink doesn’t bother me. It’s quite common for them to piss themselves, and I’ll burn everything in the crematorium when I’m done and replace it anyway.
I don’t offer him food. No, he will starve while I torture him. I just don’t want him to dehydrate.
A few days without water and he’ll die. He can go for a week without eating. That won’t kill him.
I will.
Once he’s had his fill of water, he rests back. I can see the cuts have started to scab over already. Good. The salt and bleach would have disinfected the wounds, so there’s no chance of infection.
There might be after today, though.
I leave him on the bed where he asks me again what I’ve brought, but I ignore him. I put my coat and purse down in the bathroom and I begin assembling the planks. One the length of his body facing down and then the other two across to form an ‘I’ shape.
I leave it on the floor for now. I want to build up his anticipation. He’s trying to crane his neck to watch what I’m doing, but the way I have him bound makes it uncomfortable. I start to unpack the rest of my supplies. I stack them in neat little piles along the far wall where I can view them easily.
I then go and wash my hands and stand before him.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Not knowing is half the fun. Didn’t you ever have a surprise party?” I ask, tracing a finger along the cuts on his body.
“Ye… yes,” he finally says as I stroke near his groin.
“Then you know it’s best when you don’t know what’s coming. It’ll entertain me and it will draw out your punishment for killing your sister.”
He looks away, ashamed. I’ve reminded him of why he came here, and I hope it keeps him going. The constant reminder that he killed his little sister. I hope it haunts him as I torture him. Because that’s what he wants, and after all, I am just here to perform a service.
“What was her name?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says gruffly.
“Fine.” I go retrieve the spiked carpet grips. I fit it against his one foot, press down and yank it up so the spikes meant to hold the carpet pierce through his flesh and stick in.
He screams, cursing and spitting vitriol. I do the same with the other one and I watch the blood drip down his feet, onto his heels and onto the bed.
He tries to move his feet, but I can’t have that, so I take some duct tape that I bought and I bind the grips to his feet so he can’t shake them off. I then spray bleach into the spaces between, making sure to soak his wounds.
He screams again, and I delight in the sound. This is what I come for, after all. Their screams silence the monstrous voices inside of me. It makes me a good mother, a good worker, and a delightful boss.
It stills the deathly heart that beats next to my lively one. The one that demands blood and sacrifice.
The boy cries out again as I check the duct tape is holding securely, and then I take him some water. I let him sip it and I see the sweat forming on his brow. He’s taking the strain. Good, because I’m nowhere near done.
I shift and get the planks lined up to the bed, then I push them roughly under him. I don’t care if he gets splinters from the unvarnished wood.
“What…”
“Hush,” I say quietly.
Grabbing the nail gun I purchased, I line up the top plank to his bound hands. I press the nail gun into his palm and hit the trigger once.
Thwack!
A nail shoots forth and secures his palm to the wood. At first the wound doesn’t do anything, but as his shrieks fill the room and it starts to bleed, he’s finally screaming for me to stop. That it’s too much. Pity, I hoped he’d last longer than a day.
Still, there is no going back.
He clenches his other fist, but he’s weak enough for me to pry it open and use the nail gun to secure that hand to the plank.
Thwack!
He shrieks again. He’s crying now, and he’s pissed himself again.
His feet are in the carpet grips, but I line up his ankle with the bottom plank of wood and shoot that nail through his bone and flesh to secure it. I check it’s secure, ignoring his screams as I move to the next one. Blood flows freely now, and the coppery scent fills my nose and lungs. I feel so alive. I feel fulfilled. No, not yet. The true fulfillment will come later. When I play with that toy. For now, though, I’m content to fulfill the boy’s wish to suffer for his sins. After all, it’s why he came to La Douleur Folle and why he sought me out. He could have picked anyone else, and maybe he didn’t know that. Maybe someone else would have let him go by now. I don’t enter their rooms and inspect their workings.
Just like they aren’t to enter my room and inspect mine.