Page 102 of Wicked Spite
I can’t tear my eyes away from the sweat that beads on Penn’s forehead, his muscles tense as he grips the hammer tightly in his hand. I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch him raise it high.
“Any last words?” he asks my father, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
My father’s eyes narrow, but he remains silent, refusing to give Penn the satisfaction of begging for mercy. It’s a futile act, but one that only serves to inflame Penn’s sadistic nature further.
“Suit yourself,” Penn says, shrugging nonchalantly before bringing the hammer down with a sickening crunch onto my father’s knee. His screams finally echo throughout the warehouse, but they do little to dissuade Penn from continuing his brutal assault.
My stomach churns as I watch Penn systematically break my father’s fingers one by one, each snap producing a fresh wave of screams and tears. The rage that has always burned within me toward this man is full force right now.
“Does it make you feel powerful, husband?” I find myself asking, my voice barely audible above my father’s cries. “Hearing him scream?”
Penn pauses, his gaze flicking toward me as he considers my question. “It’s not about power,” he replies. “It’s aboutjustice for you. Your father deserves every ounce of pain we’re inflicting on him today.”
My father’s pained gasps and whimpers echo off the walls, each one feeling like freedom. I can’t deny the fierce adoration swirling inside me as I watch Penn revel in his role. He’s doing this for me. He’s making things right for me because I’m his wife and he loves me more than he hates my father.
“Tell me, Mr. St. Pierre,” Penn drawls, a malicious grin stretching across his face as he circles my father like a predator stalking its prey. “How does it feel to finally be at the mercy of someone else?”
My father grits his teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. He’ll scream and moan and cry, but he won’t answer. I suppose I have to kind of admire that. It only seems to spur Penn on further, his eyes alight with glee.
“Come on now, don’t be shy,” Penn continues, taunting him mercilessly. “You never had a problem dishing out the pain before. What’s the matter? Can’t take a little taste of your own medicine?”
When my father doesn’t respond, Penn regards me for a long moment, the silence stretching between us like a taut wire. Then, without a word, he turns away from me and rummages through his bag. As he pulls out a bottle of lighter fluid in hand.
“Do you want to tell my wife you’re sorry?” Penn asks my father, his voice deceptively calm. “She doesn’t need to hear your apology, but I want to hear you say the words, you old bastard.”
His words send a chill down my spine, and I can’t help but think about the monster that lurks beneath Penn’s charming facade. As he unscrews the cap on the lighter fluid, I fall more in love with him than I already am.
My dad’s eyes widen in terror as Penn douses him with the lighter fluid, a sickening, chemical smell filling the air. I inhale deeply, relishing the scent of petrified pig. This is what I’ve been waiting for, what I’ve dreamed about every night before I fell asleep, praying I could one day see him suffer just a fraction of the pain he’d caused me and countless others.
That’s when I lose it. All the pent-up fury and pain from years of abuse surges to the surface, and before I know it, the words are spilling out of my mouth. “You sold your own flesh and blood to those disgusting pigs! What kind of father does that?” I hiss, my hands trembling with rage.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, he coughs and sputters, a pool of spittle gathering at the corner of his cracked lips.
Penn’s eyes take on a dangerous glint as he grabs his knife again. “Nothing to say but bullshit. Let me help you out, then.”
In one fluid motion, he lashes out and sinks the blade deep into Dad’s thigh. The sound of tearing flesh is unmistakable, even over Dad’s agonized screams. Blood pools around his rapidly spreading thigh wound, staining his designer pants a grotesque shade of crimson.
“Ready for the pièce de résistance, wife?” Penn taunts.
“No,” my father finally begs, tears streaming down his face.
“Hellfire?” Penn looks to me for confirmation, his eyes searching mine for any hint of hesitation.
“Make him suffer,” I say, my voice steady and resolute.
“Do you want to do the honors?” Penn asks, his voice soft.
“Do it for me like a good husband,” I whisper, watching my father’s eyes widen with horror as he realizes his fate. And for the first time in my life, I feel trulypowerful.
The air is thick with the acrid scent of gasoline, and I can almost taste the fear that radiates off my father. Penn’s eyes dance with a wicked glint as he toys with the lighter in his hand.
“Any last words?” he asks my father, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a sly grin. My heart races at the sight of him like this.
“Go to hell,” my father spits out, venom dripping from his voice.
“Already there, Johnny. Already there,” Penn retorts, flicking the lighter open with a satisfying click.
With a smooth, deliberate motion, Penn brings the fire closer to my father. The air crackles with tension as the flames leap hungrily onto him, igniting the gasoline-soaked fabric. His screams pierce the darkness, but I feel no sympathy, only a twisted satisfaction as he suffers for everything he’s done to me.
