Page 52 of Isle of Pain

“Be a good boy and do your job, baby. I’ll be watching.”

I stand and turn to Eli whose face is ashen, eyes shot red with fear.

“You’re sick,” he garbles and I decide right then, his tongue needs to go. I spend the next two hours engrossed in my tasks as I strap him to my table and remove his eyes before harvesting his organs and skinning him. Alive.

29

MARIE

…OR MAYBE JUST HORNY

Bearing witness to Nico’s controlled brutality shouldn’t have been enticing. I definitelyshouldn’tbe wet and pressing my thighs together. I even wonder why I do it because it’s not giving me any relief.

Maybe there was never a way for me to escape violence like my family wanted. Maybe it’s a genetic trait to be turned on by it. Or because I’ve known what my family does, I’m de-sensitised. Whatever the reason, I observed Nico with fascination and self-righteousness as he rid the world of this man.

His eyes on me gave me cold shivers, the feeling of being unclean sticking to my skin like a disease. I’m glad he won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again. And I’m glad Nico got what he needed, too, replacing the face of this man with the enemy he wishes to kill over and over again for hurting his family.

I can echo the sentiment.

I’d never be able to do what Nico does. But if my family were hurt, if there was someone guilty I could punish for Lisa's death, I might. That’s the problem with how I feel. My family’s way of treating me has made me bitter, they’ve hurt me though theynever wanted to. But I still love them, and I would do anything for them.

As for Lisa, that’s what cancer does. It takes from you and you have nowhere to put your pain, your grief, your hate has no where to go. There is no one to blame. Alcohol gives me someone to blame. Myself.

Something clatters to the floor and my attention is stolen again by the man who has my heart on overdrive. He’s focused, cleaning the space from blood where it disappears down the drain at the end of the room.

In his painter suit, he looks like a macabre angel of Death, the clinical version that probably gives grown men nightmares. Though none live to tell the tale. I watch riveted as he takes measured steps, using his favourite number to swipe the floor, disinfect all his tools, then disappear with the body before coming back. I’m fascinated, entranced. I can’t look away.

30

NICO

NEVER LOOKING AT KITCHEN UTENSILS THE SAME

Iclean up the workshop and dispose of the body, all the while, Marie observes me with unnerving stillness. She’s usually so easy to read, one of the things I love most about her. Yet, now in my element, where all my thoughts come to die with the souls I take, she doesn’t give me anything. It’s the first time I feel the need for reassurance, like an inferno blazing inside my mind. My fingers have started their incessant tapping again.

She removes her mask and from the corner of the room, her voice carrying with imposing calmness, she says, “You did so good, baby. Now, tell me what you need.”

The space is pristine and there’s no chance of getting any fluid other than paint on my skin when I go onto my final step of my process. I remove my own mask and start discarding the paint suit carefully, laying it to the side to be bleached later.

“I need you to tell me you don’t hate me.” I can’t look at her. I didn’t realise how raw I feel after a kill, the emotions and primal needs right under the surface. I usually shower and crash but right now, I need her hands on me, steadying me. “I need you to not be afraid of me,” I supply barely above a whisper.

When she’s discarded her own protective gear, her hand lifts to touch my cheek and bring my lips to hers in a soft touch of our mouths. “I could never, Nico. I’m not afraid of you and I certainly don’t hate you. Was it a lot? Yes.” She grimaces but it’s short-lived. “Despite what everyone thinks, despite how sheltered and protected I’ve been, I’m no stranger to violence and I find your justice kind of poetic. Does that make me a monster?”

”Of course not,” I reply vehemently.

“Then you’re not one either.” The finality of her judgment lifts the weight off my shoulders. “So, what’s the next step?”

I stand up straighter, my own hand hovering over her head. The strands of dark luscious hair beckon me in but I can’t touch her when death lingers so close. “Let’s shower.” I don’t tell her that I can smell the plastic on her and I hate it.

When we’ve cleaned ourselves up in the adjacent room and put on our clothes again, I drag two chairs from the side closet. They’re uncomfortable, white folding plastic chairs that were meant as a functional tool, but I don’t want her to keep standing. I sit Marie down, her perplexed expression lifting the corners of my lips.

Then I set up the easel, a blank canvas, and my assortment of black and white paints until I create a palette of greys that will capture every moment that happened tonight. I don’t talk as I start to sketch. Nor as I start to paint. The guilty is usually the centrepiece of my canvases but today, it’s an abstract feminine silhouette. All elements revolve around it. Black and grey mix with my harsh movements, always in a set of three. Soon, frenzy takes over and I barely control what I reveal on the painting. My arms burn with the effort of holding the brush and the palette after the strenuous task of killing Eli slowly, yet my mind has emptied of anything that isn’t this very moment.

Just like when Marie dominated me a few days ago, only peace and the present moment exist. The pain of my father’s death, the guilt and the need to repent has given way to this creative vortex I’m losing myself into. Sweat beads at my brow and I don't stop. I fill more of the canvas until no space has been left unattended. Until no space is left blank. She’s everywhere.

When I stop, I’m breathing hard. Two dainty hands snake around my middle from behind to settle on my stomach. They slither gently and I shiver, tension leaving my body as though it was never there.

Marie’s cheek presses against my back and this time, I grin freely as she tries to squeeze me to her body. “You’re so talented,” she breathes.

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