Page 248 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Her arm moves in a blur, each slice carving a memory into flesh.

Until her chest heaves and her body trembles and her mouth parts like she might finally scream?—

—but doesn’t.

Instead, she stills.

Pulls in one long breath then another before her eyes flick down to the tray.

To the tools meant for more delicate work.

She sets the blade down and reaches for the forceps.

Then selects a smaller, cleaner knife.

She moves to his head.

Grabs his tongue with the forceps and yanks it forward.

He gags, chokes, thrashes weakly.

She doesn’t blink.

“You’re disgusting,” she says.

“You used this to make women feel like nothing. To make me feel like nothing.”

She tilts her head, studies the stretch of meat between her fingers.

“Never again.”

Then she severs it in one clean motion.

Blood floods his mouth in an instant. He convulses—sputtering, choking, but he can’t scream.

His vocal cords are already gone.

What comes out is nothing more than a wet, rattling hiss.

She watches him suffer, unflinching.

Then whispers, almost to herself,

“I wonder which will kill you first . . . choking or blood loss.”

She takes the chef’s knife—not her mother’s.

But I brought it anyway.

Thought she’d want it near—thought it might mean something.

She draws the blade across his neck, slow and deliberate.

He jerks against the restraints—his spine arching.

One of his severed hands slips off his chest and hits the floor with a dullthud.

Rolls once.

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