Chapter 8 #3
“I agree.” He exhales in relief, which does little to elevate his pitiful state. His clothes are torn, soaked with sweat, and the front of his pants is wet, and by the smell polluting the air, the fucker must have pissed himself.
Those who deem themselves powerful are cowards who can’t even hold their natural impulses when threatened by someone stronger than them.
And in this, their lives become useless.
“God is merciful. I am not.”
“No, no,” he shouts, and it turns into an agonized scream when I grab the collar, keeping him still, and turn on the drill once again, but this time, aiming at his dick and shredding it into tiny pieces as blood pours from the wound.
He thrashes in my hold, although all his attempts are useless since his strength is nothing against mine, and once done, I kick him hard, letting him sway back and forth as his feet stamp over shards of glass.
He presents a hideous sight of my creation, as all my victims are my art pieces that, sadly, can never be displayed anywhere. I don’t even keep trophies, as they don’t deserve to be remembered.
“God will help me,” he whimpers, resting his forehead on his arm, breathing heavily, and coughing up blood.
Rage glides through my veins, awakening the familiar fire existing within me, ready to destroy anyone who uses faith as their shield from all the atrocities they’d committed against the innocent.
“You said God doesn’t forgive sinners.”
“Yes,” he barely manages to whisper, and whimpers, yet again, and his weakness only spikes my need to kill him.
Patience, patience, patience.
Art pieces require preparation, time, and attention to detail. Otherwise, the creation wouldn’t be complete or worth the resources I put into it.
Besides there is no justice when rushing things.
Going back to the table, I put the drill away and snap my fingers. The music changes instantly to high classical notes, casting a sense of doom around us, and his whimpers grow louder. “Do you recognize this music, Pastor?”
Wrapping my hand around the plier lying next to my blade collection, I turn and grin at him while he blinks, licking the sweat from his upper lip, then groans since the tape tore most of his skin from there.
“It’s one of your favorites.” Walking toward him, I point at the speakers when the music grows louder, and his shoulders sag, another kind of dread settling on his washed-out features that I wish I could smash to no end.
Patience, patience, patience.
“That’s what you like to play during your sessions, so no one can hear what you truly do in your office.”
He swallows. “No, no. I can explain. It’s not—” He screams when I push my arm back and punch him in the face, the cracking sound rocking between us, and by how his nose loses its shape, I know I’ve broken it. The fucker starts crying even harder as if expecting the sound to move me.
“Does God forgive perverted men who hurt people, Pastor?” By how his body trembles, using all its last resources in survival mode, I know he heard me, and he’s finally starting to realize there is no escape from my purgatory.
His dark soul will stay trapped in it for eternity.
Fisting his hair, I tilt his head back and forcefully open his jaw, holding his gaze. “You love to leave your teeth marks on their skin, as their scars and pain bring you joy. They allow you to relive your perverted moments over and over again.”
“No, no. It’s a lie.”
I click my tongue. “Ah, Pastor. Careful. God doesn’t forgive liars either.” I raise the pliers and take out his teeth one by one, all thirty-two of them.
By the time I’m done, his body is almost lifeless, hanging on the chain. While it might be in shock from all the pain, I didn’t deliver any life-threatening injuries.
You don’t get to hurt people for years and die an easy death by my hand, oh no.
My justice is a bit more twisted than that.
I pull at the chain, and he falls with a loud thud in his own pool of blood.
He can lie here for a while before I drop his body off at the nearest hospital, along with all the evidence that shows what he has done over the years.
I’ll use my special connections to make sure he goes through a trial so that suffering would be the main theme for the remainder of his life.
It will never wipe away what he did, but at least his victims will get some sense of justice, and that’s enough for me.
My father says torture is an art form that he has mastered for decades, and even though he doesn’t know it, I admire all his work.
However, he can never know about my dungeon or how I decided to preserve his legacy because my psychotic tendencies have a purpose, and I don’t need his opinion on the matter.
I’m a monster of my own creation, and I make no apology for it because as long as people like this pastor are alive?
I will let my demons have free rein to cause as much mayhem as they fucking want.
Even if they need a green-eyed beauty right now to survive, which reminds me why I went on the hunt in the first place tonight.
Her words about her brothers…the idea of her feeling alone and unwanted all her life pisses my demons off, and they wish to go and deal with her brothers for causing her this hurt. Even if they have no idea she feels this way.
She loves them, though, and they are both men I respect and admire, not to mention they love her as well. So I have to pretend to play nice.
The keyword being pretend.
Washing my hands in the sink and cleaning up all my weapons, I’m ready to head out when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Taking it out, I slide it open, and the rage from what I’m seeing almost makes me break the damn thing.
It’s a photo of Lavender’s invitation with a message attached.
Make sure to look handsome, pretty boy. Your obsession might come.
You’re a dead man walking.
The words you’re looking for are thank you. And you’re welcome. Maybe if you finally fuck her, you can focus on what really matters.
I’m going to break Kane’s fingers once we see each other again, and maybe choke him a little so he can’t perform during his next concert.
No one speaks about my woman in such a disrespectful manner or sends her invitations.
What this fucker doesn’t know is that I planned to invite her all along, as in our club vices are set free and we could explore our darkest nature.
Lavender has one as well. She just prefers to hide it away, but in the darkness, you don’t have to hide. You just have to explore.
I’m curious if she’ll ever be able to accept my vices, not that it matters in the grand scheme of things.
She will be mine no matter what she wants or decides.
Like I said, I’m not a saint and never will be.
After all…
Evil and goodness lie in the eye of the beholder.
Another harsh truth I’ve learned from my father.