Page 16 of Petite Fleur

I'm not even surprised that this fat fuck is a druggie, I just don't know how that's relevant to Denise.

Thankfully, Sam continues without me having to remind him. My patience for him is wearing increasingly thin the longer I sit here and watch him squirm.

“I owed my dealer some money, money I didn't have, but Denise had a fucking college fund!” He spits out.

No. I don't believe Denise killed herself over a fucking check.

I huff, standing up yet again and picking up my scalpel. “You'd better start connecting the fucking story before you're doing so with your own cock shoved down your throat.” I threaten.

Sam shakes his head no, taking a few steadying breaths. “Jeeze, you're violent. Fine! Fine! My dealer took the check, but he wanted more! He said it was interest for making him wait; he wanted Denise.” He answered.

I feel my blood boil, I feel my composure slipping away as the anger takes over me.

I stab my scalpel deep into his knee, basking in the shriek of pain that he makes. “Please tell me that you did not let your dealer fuck your teenage daughter for fucking drugs.” I snap.

When a painful silence fills the room other than Sam's grunts and whines in pain, I know the answer before he ever has to say it, but I want to hear him admit it. “Don't disappoint me, Sammy. Don't tell me you let that man fuck your child.” I warn.

“Of course I didn't! What kind of fucking animal do you take me for? Bitch heard the whole conversation, things got heated, and then things got a little violent.” He says through sniffles.

“Let me get this straight, Sammy. Your daughter understandably didn't want to be pimped out to some 21-year-old meth dealer, so you tried to kill her? Am I missing something here?” I ask sarcastically.

Truthfully, I don't care about the rest of the story. There's nothing he could confess that would make him any better in my eyes.

I pull the scalpel out of his knee, watching as blood pours from the wound with each beat of his heart, and lean down, getting in Sam's face until there's only a few inches between us and his disgusting breath fills my lungs. “You're a fucking pig, Sam. Do you know what pigs do?” I ask.

He quickly turns his head to stare at me, a pathetic look that's a mixture of regret and fear fills his face, but it's too late for that. He's too far gone to save himself.

“No, please. It wasn't my fault.” He whines.

“Pigs squeal, Sammy. You're going to squeal like a fucking pig.” I snap.

Sam bursts into tears, only further embarrassing himself.

I finally take my aggression out on this piece of shit, cutting away at him with my scalpel until the rage in my soul quiets down and it's peaceful in my head again.

Not that the room is peaceful.

Just as I expected, Sam squeals just like the pig he is, crying and screaming profanities and pleading for mercy with each cut, the mercy he will never get.

The room smells thick with blood, tears, piss, beer, and now vomit.

It's disgusting, but my head feels less cloudy, and I feel pretty satisfied with how pathetic Sam looks right now.

Every inch of his skin is either sweaty or bleeding and his skin is pale and cold from all of the blood loss.

I grin at my handiwork, admiring his beer gut, now with, “pig” carved into his skin.

Too bad I'll be the only one ever to see him in this state. He deserves to be left for display in the town square.

Sam throws up yet again, making me have to tilt the entire table forward to prevent him from choking on his vomit and solidifying the need to bathe this entire room in disinfectant.

Whatever. It's worth it.

But I wonder if I have enough bleach for this room. I should stop at the store on the way home from work tomorrow.

Fuck. Focus!

I need to put my energy into making sure Sam suffers as much as Denise mentally suffered.

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