Page 85 of Razors & Ruin

He gestures at the tool rack. “What’s your poison? Not literally—I know that’s your party trick, but we haven’t got all day, so why not branch out?”

Why not, indeed. I know precisely what I want.

“Can I use one of your razors?” I ask.

He reaches into his inside pocket. “I always carry them,” he says. “You never know when someone will need my attention.”

The blade catches the dim light, gleaming with history—of lives taken, of debts settled. I sit cross-legged on the floor and remove my father’s gag.

“Don’t!” He cricks his neck, trying to shift to see my face better. “My poor Nellie. You’re wrong, my pet. Remembering things that didn’t happen. Your mother used to do that, too, she?—”

Sweeney’s boot makes contact with his temple, and he bellows in pain, crashing into the wall.

For a moment, the weight of the razor in my hand feels like too much. But as I look into my father’s eyes, something hardens inside me.

I don’t need Sweeney to finish this.I can do it myself.

“Icall her my pet,” Sweeney snarls, reaching for a mallet. “You lying son of a?—”

“Put it down,” I snap. “Don’t you dare, Sweeney. What were you just saying?”

I give my new husband my most withering glare, and he relents, replacing the mallet on the rack.

My father curses and twists against the brick, and I crawl to him, grabbing him by his tie and dragging him along the chain track.

“I remember what you did to me,” I say.

I unsheath the razor, holding it where he can see it, and he recoils in horror. “Admit it, and I’ll show you mercy.”

“Alright,” he says between shuddering breaths. “I had needs, and I was weak. Your mother knew, but she never said a word to me about it.”

He lifts his bloodshot eyes to mine. “I’m sorry.”

I turn and look at my man. He sees the tears fogging my eyes, and his expression darkens.

Sweeney understands me better than anyone, even myself. He knows that my hesitation isn’t weakness—it’s the weight of everything finally coming to a head.

“Look for his pulse, love,” he says gently. “Right there, see?”

Fear has my father’s heart racing, so it’s easy to see the artery throbbing in his throat. I put my fingers on it, astonished at how powerfully alive it feels, and he rolls his head, trying to bite me.

“What happened to mercy?” he spits. “You little bitch!”

“Fucking end him, treacle,” Sweeney says. He drops to his knees behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, supporting me.

“Straight across, fast, with some fuckingfeeling. Do it, Nellie!”

I swipe the blade cleanly and deeply, catching the spot in my father’s neck where the beat is most pronounced. Blood spurts forth, drenching all of us, and Sweeney and I scramble out of reach of his flailing hands.

My father is bleeding to death, and he knows it. He’s in pain, afraid, confused, just like I was when he stole into my childhood bed at night.

“Mercy?” I scream. “This is it! Dying in agony was my best fucking offer. The hands you put on me will be tomorrow’s sausage meat, and no one will mourn you, you filthy, perverted piece of shit!”

Once a good thick vein is open, blood tends to be in a hurry to get out, and it seems every drop he has is running over the stone floor.

I get to my feet, almost slipping in the ocean of crimson, and give my gargling father a firm kick to the jaw. It crunches beneath my heel, slipping out of place, but it’s too late to hurt him anymore.

My wedding dress and Sweeney’s suit are ruined, but I don’t care. I drop my head onto my husband’s chest, sobbing, and he holds me tightly, his words warm against my skin.

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