Page 183 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

Realization. Acceptance. Of what he is.

We stay that way until the screams turn to whimpers. Until the only sound is dripping once more.

Water. Blood. Piss.

I inhale, and the air is now thick with the stench of fresh shit.

“Now, the other one, Jaine.” Commanding.

I nod slowly and take a deep breath before gripping her head again. It’s hot, wet, and sticky now, and I’m still not sure with what. I gag as I close my eyes once more as he repeats a process that’s not any easier to listen to the second time around.

“What now?” My voice is a whisper as I open my eyes to stare at the man before me. He looks like his usual self. He’s just splattered with blood and eyeball slime.

Insane.

“I’ll give you the choice, Jaine. We can either bleed her dry, or we can gut her.”

“Bleed her dry.” I’m not sure my stomach can witness the sound or smell of any more bodily fluids being spilled on the concrete floor.

He nods. I watch as he pulls down chains from the ceiling. Chains I hadn’t even realized were hanging there. Is he going to suspend her by the arms? Then I realize he’s not. I know exactly what he’s going to do when I see that the chains are fitted with a six-foot narrow plank with buckle straps.

She offers only a weak resistance as he unbinds her feet and wraps one chain around her ankles. Walking to the rear of the space, he then pulls on a hoist until she’s suspended head down and in mid-air from the ceiling with the chair still attached.

With an ease that tells me he’s done this many times before, he cuts the bindings tying the chair to her. He discards it, then attaches her wrists to the slim plank using the straps.

The result? An inverted cross.

I watch as he pulls across a large plastic container and places it directly underneath her. She makes a small whimper when, with the precision of a surgeon, he cuts into her neck and inserts a tube before securing it with medical tape. He feeds the other end into the container just as her lifeblood starts to drip out.

He turns around, and we stare at each other. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the small wooden box and open the lid.

Chopin’sMarche Funebreplays.

Walking across, I place it still open beside the container. It seems only fitting to return Sophia’s gift.

I walk back across. I wait for Irish to speak because I have no words.

“I’m sorry if my methods are a bit extreme, Jaine, but people like Sophia must be made to suffer. They have sinned against us, and for that, they have to pay a penance.” He points at her. “She killed Ace. She almost killed you. She tried to kill my son. Our son. Under normal circumstances, I would have tortured her for hours until she begged me to end her suffering, but since today was an introduction for you, I decided to keep it brief.”

I watch as his gaze drops once more to the bruising on my neck. This time, he says nothing. This time, I can’t help feeling both guilty and aroused.

I want him to tell me that he loves me. I know he did in the past. Does he still? I want to know that I wasn’t imagining it at the church. I want him to supersede the blessing he gave me and his brother by telling me that he wants me for himself.

Then I realize I don’t know what I want. It’s quickly replaced by the realization that I do. I want them both, but I can’t have them both.

“Let’s get cleaned up, Jaine.”

* * *

Right now,I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean again.

Having brushed my teeth, I stand in the shower and let the water rinse away the stench associated with Sophia. It was only to be expected that this place has wash facilities. You can’t very well leave here covered in the lifeblood and bodily fluids of others.

It’s not like I had an opportunity to look around when I was partaking in an Irish jig with Fergal, and I was hardly in the right frame of mind having just slit the throat of young Abel.

The washroom is floor-to-ceiling white tiled walls with mirrors positioned at every angle. Maybe it’s so you can double-check to make sure you haven’t missed any specks of blood.

After rinsing my hair for the second time, I step past the glass screen before wrapping a towel around my head and another around my body. I stare at thirty-one-year-old me in the mirror above the sink. I look much the same on the outside as when I first met Irish, aside from a small map of scars and a few more tattoos. I’m glad the mirror doesn’t reflect what lies underneath, as my soul must be as black as the bowels of hell.

---