Page 6 of His Property

If I am, he doesn’t appreciate it.

I snicker at my thoughts and swirl the blowtorch into what I think is a cursive “r”, then I open my eyes and twist the gas valve to snuff out the flame. The man thrashes against the rope binding him to the table, a vein popping in his neck from his screams.

“Hmm,” I say, twisting my lips as I study my signature burned into the man’s stomach. I’m getting better at this. If you look closely, you can tell that it’s my name and not just random blotches. Andthat’swith my eyes closed. Not bad.

The screeches finally calm and transition to sobs, and I stare down at the man’s limp body without an ounce of pity. I don’t think I’m capable of it.

“See, now why couldn’t you be still like this a minute ago?” I tsk and set my torch back on its bracket, then I turn toward the black bag I set on the bench. The bag can’t stay. I’m never supposed to leave any evidence of my work behind, but the bench is permanent. I keep it in what I like to call my office but is really just a back room in the basement of my boss’s casino. All that’s in here is a metal table, some laundry hampers that hold contaminated bedsheets, my bench, the blowtorch, and an incinerator my boss’s casino uses to dispose of contaminated materials. And dead bodies. But that isn’t official.

I sort through the bag until I find my sheath that holds all my knives. I lift it up, letting it fall open like an accordion, and I run my eyes over the selection until I find the one I want. The scalpel. That’ll be fun.

“Are you already done begging?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at the man. He’s full of groans, but the pleas stopped once I started on him with the blowtorch. Maybe I should’ve saved that for last.

He only closes his eyes and cries loudly in response. Snot spills from his nose.

I pluck the scalpel from the sheath, but wind up putting it back when my phone pings. I set the sheath back in the bag and pull my cell from the side pocket.

There are three texts from my sister, Gabi, that I didn’t hear come in because of the torch and scream combo, and then there’s the text my boss, Lorenzo Gruco, just sent.

Hurry up.

I sigh, reply with a thumbs up and an “almost done”, then I click off the thread and switch over to Gabi’s messages.

Letter from the state came in…

One minute after that:Do you want me to wait for you to open it?

Three minutes after:I’m not going to PT.

My spine steels. Suddenly, the noises my Wednesday morning art project makes are annoying.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, giving him a glance over my shoulder.

I go back to my phone and think carefully about what I want to say.

I’m angry. I don’t get angry often, but when I do, I’m a monster, and I know it. Gabi is the last person who deserves to be the target of that. It isn’t her fault the state decided to send the letter I’ve been bracing myself the past thirteen years for. I was supposed to have two more years before this moment came, but thanks to overcrowded prisons, my mother gets her freedom back early.

Great.

I roll my neck before texting Gabi back.

Open it. Then get ready because you’re going to PT. I’ll be there in an hour.

It takes no time for her to text back.

Fuck yourself.

Another minute goes by, and I don’t take my eyes off my phone while I wait for Gabi to tell me the date they’re letting our mother out of prison. The argument we’re bound to have about the physical therapy appointment can wait.

My phone pings, and I hold my breath.

December 23.

That’s only a week and a half away. They’re only giving us a week and a half to prepare for this shit?

I take a deep breath and text back.

Just in time for Christmas.

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