Page 67 of Penance

Necessary.

My bare chest already splattered with warm blood. I like the feel of it against my naked skin, it drives my hunger, soothes my soul. Rivulets of it drip down onto my face, falling from my shaggy blonde hair. I blink it free from my dark lashes, my nostrils flaring, I lick my metallic flavoured lips as I refocus on my prey.

This man delivered a threat to my family. He is connected to someone that’s after my Kyla-Rose, and I will not stand for that. I will protect her with my life. She owns me you see,understandsme, I only breathe to protect her. My life is hers to do with as she pleases. There is something almost pure inside her tainted soul that I must preserve at all costs. She is my other half, my reason to continue on in this sea of filth that I find myself endlessly floating in. She is the flicker of light in the dark. If she asked me to slit my own throat for her, I would do it, knowing that she would only ask it of me if it were necessary. She loves me too, you see, she would never harm me.

Therefore, I will never let someone take her from us.

From me.

The man hanging before me is short and chunky. He enjoys too many cigars, too much cognac and far too many rich foods. Looking at him makes me sick. Despite the shape of his body, he’s a snake, slithering through life waiting for the right time to strike on unsuspecting prey. My cousin will never be his prey, as long as I have breath in my lungs, I will make sure of that. I’m under no illusions that he’s the brains behind the operation, he’s not. He’s purely a low life, thrust into my eyeline by the higher powers. Yet, he still poses a threat, holding onto information I want, and Iwillget it.

She gave me a list you see.

Another small secret between The Chaos Twins.

As is our way.

Kyla-Rose’s pretty handwriting, penmanship in blood red, neatly listing names. Things on that list to be hunted, to be captured, to be tortured and sliced up into tiny little pieces. Dragged down into my dungeon to do exactly as I please with them.

My only captive audience, Dillon, and he does enjoy a good show.

Sidney was the first to be struck off the list. I slashed through his name so hard my knife tore through the paper. You see when I sign my own name into things, I scratch it in. Carve line over line to bulk out my sharp letters. Obsessively scrape, dig and score my name into my prey. It’s not often I sign my name with an actual pen, so it didn’t occur to me to use one.

Which brings me, once again, to the final name on the list.

It’s that name that had my head tilting when she presented me with it. There’s always a little heart penned beneath the ‘A’ when she signs her own name.

Kyla-Rose Swallow.

Penned in cursive ink, that dainty red heart etched beneath the A.

Now, I didn’t question that one. I just nodded. We’ll get to that. But if she feels she needs to be on her own list, that’s her prerogative. We’ll get to the bottom of that when the time’s right. For now, I hunt the rest. The most loyal, willing servant she’ll ever have.

Regardless of my torture techniques over the last however many hours, he is yet to squeal like the pig that he is. He isn’t a name on my list, but he is associated with at least one of them. I have more than enough time this morning to get what I want from him. I even bought him a drink. I threw an icy bucket of water over him; he could have stuck his tongue out or opened his mouth to catch some. I’m feeling generous today, I mean, it is Christmas after all.

“So, have you thought about what I asked?” I growl, my voice low and gravelly, holding the underlines of a threat in every word I speak.

The snivelling man is rasping for breath. Which is probably due to his multiple broken ribs and the punctured lung I gave him. The sounds he makes through his windpipe and nose are like music to my ears. These are the sounds I can tolerate, those of pain.

“What do you think, Dillon?” I direct my attention onto my stuffed, white feathered duck friend.

I’ve had Dillon for almost fifteen years now. He wasn’t always this way, though, on wheels I mean. He was my companion for eight years before that, without them. His beautiful, white feathers and brightly coloured, orange beak. Cocking my head, straining to hear his response, listening to his response, I smirk at his antics.

“Such a naughty boy,” I wink at him conspiratorially.

Sitting beneath my table of tools, his little pully string tied around the leg of it; he can’t be trusted. He likes to wander, and I don’t like him getting his pretty feathers dirty. I spin back to face the snivelling man, cocking my head in the other direction, I sigh.

“I will ask you this question once more before I get a little irritated and I’m being patient with you because it’s Christmas,” I tell him calmly.

My head tilts to the left as my eyes rove over his torn flesh. There is nothing quite like admiring one’s artwork the following day.

“Who sent you?”

The man hangs awkwardly from his right arm, his shoulder dislocated, ligaments in the elbow torn. I admire the uncomfortable angle as I restart the small blowtorch. The whoosh of heat and the soothing sound of its power thrill me as I work the glacial blue flame along the blade of my knife.

“You should be happy that it’s me down here with you. My cousin is even less patient for information that threatens her family,” I tell him as I carefully start to circle his groaning form.

I step up behind him. My cool breath blowing against the tender, raw skin of his back. I take my serrated blade, carving a deep line through the muscles between his shoulder blades. My heated knife burning and melting the flesh and tissue as I cut into him.

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