Page 7 of Isle of Pain

There is no denying death happens here and when my victims open their eyes to take in their surroundings, reactions vary from sobbing uncontrollably, thrashing, throwing up, or all three. I tilt my head as I wonder what Meg will do.

I don’t have to wait as she rouses. When she realises where she is, bound and powerless, her eyes widen like saucers, then she thrashes against the chains holding her up and bellows in pain under the gag in her mouth as she dislocates a shoulder.

I click my tongue. I don’t like it when they hurt themselves. Then they don’t focus on the pain I’ll carve on their bodies. I tap my right index finger three times on my right thigh, then my left. Three taps. Three rolls of my shoulders, and I turn around. Thesounds of her distress are drowned out as my mind focuses on my next task. With deft fingers, I untie my black Converse high tops and remove them, sealing them into a waterproof bag and placing them on the lowest shelf of the metal closet in front of me. I unbutton my dark jeans and fold them neatly, then place them on the second shelf from the bottom. My torn black loose tee goes out next and I take my time to put it on the third shelf. I keep my boxers on and don the plastic painter's suit I usually use for an occasion such as this.

I hate the material, how loud it crinkles with every movement. But I hate when the blood of victims touches my skin even more. It’s viscous, and more importantly, alien. Outside of myself.

I complete my preparations with a pair of heavy duty rain boots, nitrile-free gloves, and a mask over my face that allows me to see clearly and doesn’t obstruct my face for my victim. I want them to be the last image they see. A reaper all dressed in white, a sanitised vision of death. The image I paint, I know, is terrifying. I can see it in the reflections of the five mirrors displayed on all four walls of the room and the ceiling. They can’t escape me. And if they try to close their eyes, I’ll take their eyelids. I don’t like to do it, but there isn’t much I like about killing. It’s just something I do to quell the obsessive thoughts of my father’s death. That and the whip.

Every kill is a need in my blood. It starts slow like an itch. Then it spreads to my bones, to my muscles. I think about how I’ll kill next and who it should be. There is an abundance of bad people who deserve the judgement I pass, so it’s never been an issue for now. I’ve never wanted to kill someone who didn’t deserve it.

But I don’t kill for sport. I don’t hunt my victims and play with my food. They do bad shit and I collect their souls. I feel better for it and justice is served. It’s a win-win.

“Please Nico! Please, please, please. Don’t kill me,” Meg begs under her gag behind me, barely understandable, and I bring my attention to her. Even as she’s ready to die, her eyes flash with hunger as I turn to her. I gave her what she wanted. I gave her my attention. Her body hasn’t fully connected the dots and isn’t preparing her for her impending doom. Yet.

I remove the plastic ball from her mouth.

“Why don’t you tell me about Mr Wade and Mr Russel?” I ignore her and ask about the two teenagers she assaulted, who are in therapy because of her.

Her lips part with surprise and she shakes her head vigorously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you that way. I got carried away. I didn’t know you didn’t like it. I’m sorry.”

She repeats the empty words a few times over. I’m unmoved.

“Tell me about Mr Wade and Mr Russel,” I repeat. My voice is calm and collected. My insides are at peace here in my space. All this white assaults the senses but to me, it’s like black. The two extremes are the only colours I enjoy. They calm my racing mind.

Catching up that I won’t be doing anything else but wait until she gives me what I want, Meg sputters, “They were my students.” I hum and nod, inviting her to continue.

My relaxed state lulls her into a false sense of safety.

“I loved them and then they turned on me. They meant the world to me and I thought we were meant to be. Their betrayal hurt me so much.” It’s unnecessary for me to point out that when a seventeen year-old tells on their forty-one year old teacher touching them inappropriately after school, it’s not a betrayal. “That’s why I wasn’t like myself at the club tonight. Heartbreak will make you do stupid things. I’m sorry. Please, let me go.” The last words end on a sob and I nod again. She sighs a breath of relief.

I turn to the display of tools on the other side of the clothes closet and take the duct tape. The tearing of a piece of it echoes in the room. The first note of the symphony I’ll create. I’m better at painting than I am at music but that first moment is precious. It holds weight and suspends us both in time.

Until I march to Meg, slap the duct tape over her mouth before she tries to scream, and slash her cheek with the knife she didn’t see coming. The cut is shallow but the sensation of warm liquid on her cheek registers and tears fall on Meg’s face, her eyes wild with fear. I cut her other cheek and then her jaw, completing my series of three. Before I’m too far gone into handing the sentence, I remove my gloves and pick up my phone, choosing the music for tonight’s play. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake ballet blasts from the sound system, drowning her cries for mercy.

With a new set of gloves on, I set to work on Meg. With precise movements that leave no place for approximation, I slide through her clothes until she’s fully naked. I don’t care to look at her body. I couldn’t be less interested.

Then, I cut at her carotid and femoral artery. The blood flows slowly but steadily.

Red slides along her torso and her leg until it drips onto the white concrete floor. The coat of waterproof paint and the slight incline on the floor helps the blood pour towards the drain at the back of the room.

I take a seat and bring my tools closer, the fresh canvas ready for another of my pieces. For a moment, I watch, riveted, as Meg’s life-force flows from her veins onto my workshop’s floor and away to the sewers. That’s where it belongs. It doesn’t take long. She dies miserably, her strength leaving her just slowly enough to be conscious of her upcoming death. All the while, I move my brushes along the canvas in shades of white, grey and black.

It’s close to dawn when I’m done painting. With the rising sun, exhaustion lands over my shoulders. My eyelids are heavy and my muscles plead for sleep and rest.

One last step to my dance macabre.

I set the canvas aside to dry, unchain her body until it piles onto the floor like a mass of flesh and sinew despite the rigor mortis, and pick it up over my shoulders. The crematorium is a few steps away but I feel every single one as I carry the dead weight there and burn her body to ash.

When I come back to my workshop, I pick up my canvas and place it on an easel to dry in my drawing room, which is more of a storage unit for my art since I never really paint there. After cleaning up my tools and dousing the room in bleach, I remove the painter’s suit and discard it, then I take my clothes and walk to my house, naked in the ice-cold November air.

Sleep that night is fitful and heavy. Until the usual nightmare.

4

MARIE

SECRETS AND SHOTS

---