Page 193 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Of course I’d have mom’s chef’s knife. It’s practically a family heirloom now. But other tools would be better for Nathaniel.

A scalpel, maybe.

A bone saw could be too messy. Too loud.

But a pair of dental forceps?

Nowthathas precision. Purpose.

I’d sterilize everything first. Line it up. Tools neatly arranged on a folding table. Labeled, maybe. In order. There’s something calming about that.

And maybe this time I wouldn’t rush.

Nathaniel Mercer doesn’t deserve a clean death like a a single cut to the throat or the dignity of a fast ending.

He deservesbalance.

His victims always reported the same detail.

The bruising. The sedation.

And the bite marks.

Deep. Scarring. As if he wanted to leave his signature carved into them.

So, I’d take his teeth.

One by one.

I imagine him strapped to the chair—groggy, blinking, confusion blooming behind his eyes like a bruise. He tries to speak, but I hush him. Smile, even.

“I’m going to help you understand,” I’d whisper.

The forceps are heavy in my hand but balanced, like they were made for this.

The first tooth takes effort.

Pressure. Rocking. A crack of enamel.

Blood wells up around the root, coppery and warm.

He chokes on it, and I tilt his head gently, so he doesn’t aspirate. I’m not finished yet.

It’s not about rage. This is deliberate. Centered.

The second tooth comes easier.

The third easier still.

There’s a rhythm to it.

Left side. Right side.

Top row. Bottom.

Even numbers. Clean extractions.

With each one, his screams fade into gargled sobs.

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