Page 61 of Redemption
“So anyway, I heard back from the pilot. The jet will be here in two days.”
“Good,” was all I said. I was done talking to him. As if sensing my irritation, he continued,
“How long did you last at that job you forged your way into anyway? A few weeks?” He laughed.
“Things changed,” I said through gritted teeth.
He smiled, and I could tell he was about to make a joke when I heard the chime from the gallery’s door below us. I signaled for my brother to be silent and shot him a glance as I listened more intently. We waited in silence for minutes, not moving a muscle.
Creak.
I looked toward the bedroom door. We left it open, and someone was silently making their way up the stairs. Damien slithered under Sophia’s bed, and I hid in her bathroom, leavingthe door cracked. Watching. Waiting. I heard another creak from the stairs. I found myself clenching my jaw, unable to suppress the ravenous hatred I felt for Henry. I stared through the crack in the door, waiting for that little freak to appear in front of me.
Dry blood caked his nose and trailed across his face. His throat was red and purple from my iron grip. He looked around the room as if he smelled something unfamiliar, then walked toward the camera in the wall and cleared his throat before working to conceal his twisted nature. The sound of pliers clicking, wire snapping, tools chipping drywall, and Henry’s weak grunts filled the silence. I used the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and silently approach. I felt a smile forming on my face as I stood there, breathing down his neck. Finally, he yanked his contraption from the wall.
“I’m going to turn you into a modern art masterpiece,” I said, letting his death sentence linger in the air.
Henry whipped around, falling back into the wall. His eyes widened as he looked up at me, his face holding the primal visage of pure, animalistic terror. They shifted toward the door, where Damien now leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. Henry fell to his knees, clasping his hands together in a pitiful plea for mercy. His mouth twitched open, and his lips quivered as he tried to find the right combination of words to save himself. But he said nothing. Deep down, he knew, just as I did, that nothing could change what was about to happen.
Crack.
I punched him in the mouth, launching him backward into the wall headfirst. I grabbed Henry—my flesh canvas, flowing with fresh blood—and set about my work.
Crack.
His jaw dangled from his face, worthless. Broken. He squealed like a pig as I forced him back to his feet and pinned him against the wall.
Red is a beautiful color. So vibrant.
I hit him again, flattening his nose; again, a black eye, surrounded by crushed bone.
A new color on the canvas.
“Pleeease,” he gurgled, tongue flapping, unable to beg properly without the use of his jaw.
“Shut the fuck up!”
He didn’t have a choice, really, considering both of my hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. His good eye fluttered, closing for a moment before bulging open wider than before. He seemed to understand now that he was going to die.
Snap.
His head slumped sideways, then tilted backwards much further than any head should, neck skin stretching to its limit. I dragged my lifeless creation down to the gallery, wondering if I should hang it up or throw it away, when I noticed a row of pottery along the top of a display rack.
“Damien, see if there’s a kiln here somewhere.”
“A what?”
“It’s a furnace, for pottery.”
Damien smirked, shaking his head.
"You're really getting into the spirit of this art thing, huh?" He gave Henry’s corpse a dismissive kick before heading toward a back room.
I paused, taking in the quiet stillness of the gallery. The walls were lined with Sophia’s vibrant, expressive artwork—so full of life and innocent passion, a stark contrast to the violence I’d just unleashed.
“Found it! But there’s no way he’s gonna fit,” Damien’s voice echoed from the back.
Perfect.
