CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I pull up and park my car outside La Douleur Folle and get out. I’m more excited about what I have planned for tomorrow than what I have planned for today, but all good things come to those who wait.
Boy should be excited. We’re counting down to the end now. He thinks he’s going to survive. At least he is holding ontoa shred of hope that he will. I don’t mind feeding into that. I like the taste of hope on my lips, especially when I know I will snuff it out.
The strange dream I had comes back to me briefly, and I pause outside the door to take a deep breath. I can hear the music still playing in the room and Boy’s groans mingled with that.
I cannot talk tonight, or the auditory torture will not work. I slip into the room, and he turns his head as I shut the door.
“Is it you?”
I don’t say anything. He can’t see me, and I can see he’s been crying. There’s fresh blood on his feet, and it seems he has tried to free them but failed. I bring a water bottle to his lips, and he drinks from it generously. Still, I remain quiet.
I’m tempted to talk, don’t get me wrong. I want to spark up that hope again. But I have set this up carefully, and psychological torture is just as important as physical torture.
I take out a little funnel and a balloon. I attach the balloon to the end of the funnel and secure it there, sealing it with super glue. I then take out a hose, the hammer and some nails. Boy jumps when I stand on the bed, a foot either side of him. I hammer a nail into the wall above him, take some twine, and attach the funnel to the nail so it’s hanging above his head. Then I take the hose and connect it to the tap in the bathroom, and feed the other part into the funnel. I turn the tap on and once the balloon is relatively expanded; I turn it on at a slower pace and poke a hole through the balloon. A drip of water hits Boy on the head.
Chinese Water Torture. That’s what this is called. He gasps as another drop lands on his head, then it drips again and this time hits his cheek. Excellent, I’ll just leave that on, and he can enjoy that.
“Please, make it stop.”
I don’t respond to his pleas. Instead, I get out my phone and text The Pharmacist for liquid Viagra. That will be useful for tomorrow. For tonight, though, I think another dose of adrenaline should help.
I tie a tourniquet around his arm and inject the substance quickly. He tries to wiggle his arm and hand but then cries out as the needle jerks beneath his skin.
“Please say something, anything,” he begs.
I look at his stomach, noting that it has scabbed over from where I made several cuts into it with a blade. I lean over and pick at one of the scabs. Once I’ve got a corner up, I hold it tightly and rip it off. He moans and I start on the next one. I continue to pick the scabs off until all the cuts are trickling blood or pink and swollen–depending on how far they’re healed.
He tries to turn his head this way and that to avoid the water, but nothing helps. I sit back and watch him. I look at his belly button. Once a source of life for him. He’s got an outie. I don’t think he needs it anymore. I retrieve my scalpel and pull up a chair beside him. I wipe the area with an alcohol swab.
“No, what are you doing?”
Starting with a small incision, I cut all around the belly button. He cries out and coughs up some blood, but I don’t stop. I’ve created such a neat little circle around it. I slip the blade under the skin and separate the skin from the tissue before I finish cutting out the belly button completely.
I set it aside and spray bleach on the wound, causing Boy to cry out once more.
“Please, I’m begging you. Please make it stop.”
I spray the wound again and dab at it with an alcohol swab. Tears leak from his eyes as he groans. I don’t know how much more he can take, but I don’t plan on stopping, so he had best find some resolve.
I could turn the music off and speak, just to give him hope. Perhaps I will. Maybe later, after he’s been tortured a little more. I see he’s still turning his head this way and that, trying to avoid that infuriating drip of water. Too bad he’s pretty much fixed in place and can’t move.
I sit back in my seat and simply watch him in silence. He tries to speak a few times, but he doesn’t actually get any words out. I inspect his ribs. They are blackened where I struck them with a hammer. His shins too. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t form a clot.
I touch his ribs gently, and he hisses in pain. I trace them slowly, ignoring his whimpers. I trace my hand down his abdomen to his shins and he cries out. His cries are so delicious. I know I am doing a good job when they can’t stop from crying out, even if they are in the worst kind of pain.
I look at the needles in his toes and the carpet grips attached to his feet. I run a finger over the needles. He tries again to move his feet, to no avail. He can’t curl his toes away from me because of the carpet grippers.
I move back up his body and inspect the blisters where I burned him with a cigarette. I lean down and kiss them softly, enjoying the fleshy feel against my lips.