Page 94 of No Saint

He was half on, half off the bed, sweat slicking his hairy skin and he snored. The smell coming off him matched the level of a corpse, a living being choosing to soak in his own juices rather than clean himself.

He made me sick. I place the bucket on the floor, rolling my shoulder, letting myself clearly vision Amelia’s pain. Her fear.

And then I lunge. I grab the hair at the back of his head and yank him off the bed, plunging his face into the ice cold water before he even has a chance to wake.

He thrashes but I hold him in that bucket, keeping his face beneath the water until the last second before I pull it back out, leaning down so my mouth is close to his face, “How does it feel, asshole?”

He sucks in shocked breaths but then I plunge him back in.

His hands grab at my legs, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he knocked the bucket over but until then, I would keep going.

Water sloshes over the floor, but I get another three before the bucket finally gives. I drop him facedown onto the floor, pressing my foot to the back of his neck to keep him there.

“Who are you?”

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” I growl.

I take out my gun and press it into the back of his head, the coward whimpers.

“Tell me,” I say, “Did you like it when she screamed? When she cried?”

“Who?” He cries.

“She still suffers because of you,” The sole of my shoe presses harder, squashing his face into the carpet. “You were supposed to protect her, instead you damaged her. You broke her!” I roar.

“Are you talking about Amelia!?” His voice is muffled but I hear him.

I kick him. Hard.

“Don’t you ever fucking say her name again!”

Still whining I drag him up and make him sit, keeping the gun at his head, “You don’t ever say my wife’s name again.”

“Wife?” He spits, “Ha, good luck with that whore!”

I hit him across the face with the gun, splitting his cheek.

“She liked it,” he continues, “Liked it when my men paid more to fuck her. Liked it when I cut up that pretty skin of hers.”

I wanted to explode. I really fucking wanted to. But I didn’t.

Instead, I smile down at him and something in it must have scared the ever loving shit out of the man because he pisses himself right there. I reach over to the cabinet, grabbing an empty beer bottle around the neck.

He looks at it and then back at me, “W-what does i-it m-m-matter,” he stutters, “She’s been long gone from here.”

“Do you think it goes away?” I ask, weighing the bottle. “The trauma of her abuse.”

“Bitch deserved it,” the words have venom and I’m sure he means them, but they come out weak.

“Do you know who I am?”

He shakes his head.

“My name is Gabriel Saint,” I keep my eyes on his face, reveling at how pale he becomes, “I assume you’ve heard of me.”

He nods.

“Do you know what I do to people who hurt my family?”

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