Page 22 of Tear Me Down
“Do you work for Dust?” I try to ask her calmly.
“No! No, please! I'm just a bartender! I have a little boy at home! Please don’t hurt me!” Call me naive, but looking into her eyes, I can tell she isn’t lying. Her high-pitched tone and desperation scream truth, and I’m inclined to believe that she has no part in their operation.
“Where is your phone?” I inquire, and she flings her head upward, staring into my gaze with wide, shaky eyes.
“In the back! We’re not allowed to have them out while customers are here. I don’t have it, I swear!” Her voice cracks through a sob, and I faintly shush her, trying to convey that I have no intention of hurting her.
“Listen to me,” I say calmly and collectively. “I want you to leave. Go straight out the front door. Tell no one what you saw tonight.” I shake my head timidly, trying to keep my movements lulled.
“I won’t, I promise! Thank you! Thank you!” She scrambles to her feet and runs out the front door, sure to keep her gaze straight and not look around at my carnage as she flees. As I stand, I grab an empty glass and pour myself a shot of whiskey, allowing my hatred to stir back up to the surface as the glass fills up.
“So, tell me. How much money did it take for you to poison an innocent woman?” I look over to Gargoyle and he’s attempting to pull the blade out of his hand, but to no avail, of course. He grunts and whimpers as he tries to forcethe blade, but it doesn’t budge. I was sure to land the blow hard enough for the steel to penetrate the wood, ensuring it would hold him in place for anyone who wasn’t strong enough, and by the looks of him? There’s no way he is. In his desperation, he looks to me with wide eyes and shakes his head.
“It was an accident!” he pleads. “King thought the home belonged to DH! It was a mistake! Just a job!” He swallows harshly to mask another childish whimper.
“Just a job?” I move my face towards him, gradually and methodically as I feel my inner demon claw its way to the surface. “JUST A JOB?!” I slam the cup into the side of his face, reveling in the shock from the glass shattering beneath my hand, spilling whiskey into his eyes and nose, before shoving his head down onto the bar. I press down heavily and grind his features into the shards, forcefully holding him there and feeling him tremble beneath me. Pulling my pistol back out, I shove it into his temple, already yearning to pull the trigger. “YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT HOUSE MEANS TO HER!” I roar as he shudders, and his body wracks with sobs.
Is this pussy actually crying?
“I'm sorry man! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” he pleads as if his words mean something. As if the love of my life didn’t literally drop dead because of his actions.
“You’re sorry?” I pick his head back up, tangling my fingers into his greasy hair and gripping tight as I hold a piece of broken glass to his eye. His eyes widen again while his pupils shrink, showcasing his terror and feeding into my savagery. “I watched as the light in her eyes vanished. My soul was ripped from me in that moment, and you're sorry?” I seethe through gritted teeth, that red rim around my vision returning in full force.
He begins to whimper in my hands, crying like a little bitch. I’m surprised he hasn’t wet himself or started screaming for his mommy, but there’s nothing that can save him now, and he knows this.
“Think of the pain and anguish she had to go through just to physically recover. I want you to imagine every tear that she shed. Every whimper that escaped her perfect lips from the pain you inflicted, and then I want you to think of what you took from her. How you robbed her of the only comfort this life has offered her. Was your money worth it? I sure hope so, because you’re about to feel every burning ounce of what she felt. The fear that abducted her mind, you'll feel tenfold.” I take a shaky breath in and allow my eyes to flutter closed, smelling how the blood mixes with his sweat and tears. Feeling the calm that temporarily washes away the ache in my heart, and I know that acting out this justice is right. I open my eyes to see pure, primal fear overshadow his features, laying waste to any hope he had of getting out of this alive. “Lay on the fucking bar,” I shakily command, but he refuses.
Those disgusting whimpers continue to ring out, testing every last strand of my patience until I shove the piece of glass in his eye, digging it in deep and allowing his screams to take over the building once more. He tries to struggle, thrashes and screams for help, but I don’t let him budge. Instead, I yank the knife from his hand and pull him on top of the bar, leaving the glasslodged in his socket and dragging him across the sticky surface until he’s lying flat on his back.
He still thrashes and screams, but it’s almost as if he’s accepted his fate. No longer trying to escape, but more or less releasing his agony. Using the handcuffs I brought with me, I clasp his bloody hands around the long pole that lines the inside of the bar top, allowing him to continue lying flat for what I need to do. What I’m compelled to do. To be sure he doesn’t try and thrash too much, I shove my knife into his other hand, palm up, and pinning him down again.
There’s no screaming this time. Just a weak little cry that escapes and flies past his lips. His tears begin to pool underneath him on the bar top, creating tiny circles of clean epoxy that I’m about to ruin anyway. Rather quickly, unfortunately, since I’m most likely running out of time.
I take my buck knife—my favorite—from its sheath and stab him at his sternum, just under his heart. His agonizing screams ring out again through pained gasps, echoing through the space so loudly it might shatter the bottles behind me. As I pull down, the ripping and squelching reverberates through my essence, calling out to the monsters that live in my head and telling them to prepare for the climax.
Moving precisely and efficiently, I gut him, admiring the way his blood pools to the surface and runs over his repulsive body—completely in awe of how the body tries to retain any ounce of life’s liquid and keep him breathing. I’m sure not to go too deep, not wanting to slice into any vital organs. My wrath will be his destruction, and the knife is too merciful.
This type of torture shouldn’t alleviate my pain, but it always has. He’s nowhere near innocent, so I have no reason to feel guilty. He took everything from us, and while yes, I got it back, that doesn’t excuse his actions. It doesn’t change anything. She was finally at peace, and he swiped it from underneath her feet in the same way the Reaper steals souls. I will avenge that moment, and I will right that wrong. No matter what it takes.
The moment his stomach is exposed to me, I pour the whiskey into his body and drown out the hisses and whimpers that are still escaping his mouth. Bright amber colors blend together with his blood, and it’s truly a sight to behold. A stone of that color would look elegant laid across my love’s chest as a display of loyalty and devotion, a fragment of this moment captured to prove my wrath to all who stand against us. The clear auburn swirls hypnotically, and not quite mixing, with the deep red of his newly exposed gore. The symmetry to this picture is marvelous. The hue of her eyes mingling with her favorite color only makes this justice sweeter. I imagine if Van Gogh were to paint hell instead of a Starry Night, this is what it would look like, and I’ll happily display the art above our bed where she’ll stare into Heaven as I devour her cunt.
I lean back against the bar shelves, pull my mask down and light another cigarette, watching as his body jolts and strains with pain and shock. Witnessing how his mind teeters on the edge of acceptance, denial, and grief. I inhale the smoke with his screams, and while I expected to feel satiated…
I don’t.
Not completely.
This piece of shit may have been the one to carry out the action, but he didn’t give the order. Hugo needs to die, much slower than Gargoyle here. His death will need to last much longer. A sort of demented edging, if you will. Push him to the brink of death, only to reel him back in with a thread thinner than the Fates would carry. A fiery death that is slow and agonizing. A way to watch him perish as his soul seeps into the dark abyss.
Speaking of...
I look to my cigarette to see the red ashes needing to be flicked off. The grey, somehow standing, powder drooping downward and pointing to the floor. So, I solve the problem and flick the embers right into his torn torso. What alcohol I poured into him and onto him catches fire, whooshing to life and engulfing him in the most enthralling display. Worse blood curdling screams leave his mouth as his stomach burns, and the smell of cooking flesh overtakes the normal sugar-ridden area.
“This is how she felt that evening, AND NOW YOU’LL DIE FEELING IT!” I scream, as close to his burning body as I can get, grabbing the bottle before side-stepping and watching him burn. I take a swig from the bottle, savoring the taste mixed in with the violence that now haunts this establishment, and begin pouring it from his body, over his face, down the bar, and across the room—fire catching as I dispense it. A direct trail of my carnage leads its way outside as a beacon, a testimony of my commitment and allegiance to the one that holds my blackened heart.
As I inhale the last few puffs of my cigarette, I flick the butt onto the floor, creating more flames and admiring the way they stretch to engulf everything they touch. The tables, the chairs, the walls, and even the other five bodies I left out for show. Taking one last look, I mentally snapshot my sacrifice and turn to leave, allowing the squeal of the door to signal the end of my terror for the night.
I rip off my mask as I exit the burning building, taking in a relieved breath the moment the fabric is removed. The stickiness of the drying blood peels off with it, allowing the cool air to attempt to sweep this red-hot anger from me and settle into my pores, a slight reprieve from the anguish that’s constricting my soul.
