Page 15 of Petite Fleur

I grab the hose I have attached to the waterline down here; sometimes I need to wash this room, and it's easier if I don't have to do it with a fucking mop and bucket.

An easy cleanup is essential here.

I spray Sam down, not stopping until the thick brown water stops, and all I'm left with is clean water circling the drain in the middle of the floor.

"I'll be back." I tell him, walking away from him for a little while.

I am not willing to sit here and stare at this naked idiot on my table until he's willing to behave.

I probably should've left his boxers on, but in case he admits to having raped his daughter, I need them off.

I give Sam a few hours of silence while I work on a few things for work, just a few case notes and a handful of consultation requests, but it keeps me busy.

When I return downstairs, Sam seems more docile and immediately looks at me when I open the door. “Ask.” He says flatly.

I smile at him, taking a seat a few feet away. "Denise. What did you do to her? And don't lie to me." I remind him.

I don't know the whole story, but I know the small snippet I learned from the police report and Denise's consultation. Plus, I can read people well enough to know when I'm being lied to.

He huffs and stares at the ceiling while refusing to meet my gaze; I know he wants to pretend it’s from disgust, but this pig is terrified.

"I didn't do anything to her." He claims. So this is how we're doing things. Fine by me.

I stand up and head toward my little cabinet of toys, my favorite place.

“You know, I warned you not to lie. It wasn't wise to try me.” I say while pulling out a plastic coat, a pair of sterilized surgical gloves, and a few tools. “It's fine. I'll get to play, and maybe you'll learn the rules.”

“Fuck you! I didn't lie! You'd better let me out of here, or you're dead, do you hear me? Dead!” He shouts pathetically.

I do a little “tsk,” ignoring his whiny outburst. “Good luck with that, Sam.” I say with a chuckle.

I approach the table, doing a few slow circles around it while I debate how we start our little game. For each circle I do, I spin a scalpel between my fingers. I see Sam break a little more despite his fearless facade.

He's so close to cracking, but I know he won't until he bleeds.

When I reach the bottom of the table again, I push the end of my scalpel into the bottom of his foot. It earns me a loud howl of pain and Sam fighting in his bindings, but there's nowhere to go.

I drag the scalpel up the entire length of his foot, seeing the skin flay open and blood fill my table with each pulse of his heartbeat.

The thick iron smell fills the room, and Sam’s screams echo against the walls, ringing my ears the more he howls in pain.

"Try again." I offer.

It takes Sam an embarrassing amount of time to stop screaming, but by then, snot is coming out of his nose, and his voice is even more hoarse from yelling.

“Are we done with that little outburst? Can we try answering my questions again?” I ask calmly. “What did you do to Denise?” I ask again.

“When?” Sam asks.

This fucker.

I quickly stand up, grabbing my scalpel off the table, but Sam cuts me off. “No, no, no, please! What do you want to know?” He quickly asks.

“Everything.” I demand.

Sam sighs, collecting himself for a minute. Tears stream down his face; he's covered in a layer of sweat that has now spread goosebumps all around his body as he's calmed down. He's a fucking mess.

“Okay, so I might partake in the occasional drug use, but that shit ain't cheap!” He calls out.

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