Page 28 of Reaper Razed

He tries to move his head, but I’ve got him strapped to the table by it, and his biceps, wrists, torso, thighs, and ankles. Ya know, just to make sure there’s minimal movement.

“What do you want?” he spits.

“No need to pitch a hissy fit, sugar. I just wanna talk.”

He flattens his lips together as if to tell me he won’t, but I know differently. “I’m gonna ask you a question, sugar, and if you answer correctly, I won’t cut ya. If you lie or refuse to answer”—I waggle my scalpel and then point to the toolbox in his peripheral—“then we’re gonna see just how many cuts it takes to kill you deader than dead!” I smile sweetly at him.

“Madison,” he tries to reason. “You really don’t want to do this. You know how powerful The Armoury is!”

“That I do, sugar.” Grinning at him again. “But The Armoury don't scare me. So let’s start small, shall we?” I twist the scalpel in my fingers. “Who do you work for, sugar?”

He takes a breath and sighs like I’m an idiot. “The Armoury!”

I smile and push the tip of the scalpel into his forearm just enough to cause a grimace. “Well, heavens to Betsy, looks like this is gonna be a long day. I hope you didn’t have any plans, sugar. That’s your only warning.” I twist the scalpel in my fingers again. “Who do you work for, sugar?”

“The Armoury!”

Standing over him, I press the tip of the scalpel into his bicep and drag it slowly, about three inches, causing him to clench and grimace in pain. “Who do you work for, sugar?”

Through gritted teeth, he says, “The Armoury.”

I nod and smile, digging the scalpel deeper, this time into his chest and dragging it five inches across his pec. “Who do you work for, sugar?”

I can see the sweat starting to bead on his forehead, it is warm down here, and he’s tensing like a motherfucker trying not to show how much it hurts. “The A-a-armoury,” he stammers a little.

“Who do you work for, sugar?” I smile down at him again. He always hated my sweet smile.

He closes his eyes. “The Armoury,” he breathes out. His eyes fly open as I push the scalpel into his cheek, and he yells out!

“Eyes on me, sugar! Who. Do. You. Work. For?” Before allowing him to answer, I start to drag the scalpel along his cheekbone, and he grits his teeth and tries not to move. “Think hard before you answer, sugar. My patience isn’t what it used to be!”

His eyes stare into mine, trying to find some resemblance to the girl he remembers, the sweet Southern girl who tried her hardest to fit in, who they ridiculed over and over for her failure to be tough enough, fit enough, ruthless enough, clever enough, she never quite cut it, but did it all with a sweet apple pie smile and that really gripped him, he tried to take advantage and fuck it out of me a few times, but needless to say, you can’t change someone when they’re not that person to begin with.

The funny thing is, I never was that girl. “Who do you work for?” I dig the scalpel in this time, dragging it down his thigh roughly as he screams out in pain. “Who do you work for, Gerald?” I stab the scalpel in again, dragging down his shin without waiting for an answer. My actions are aggressive, but my voice is calm and sweet, with that Southern accent front and centre. “Who do you work for?”

Again, I stab into his stomach and drag across his abs as he clenches and screams out. “Who do you work for, sugar?” I stab into his other peck, drawing down towards his nipple. “Who do you work for, sugar?” He’s panting and screaming, but I don’t give him a chance to take a breath.

I stab into his ribs and drag it down towards his stomach. “Who do you work for, sugar?” Eat, sleep, rave, repeat, I stab, I drag, I ask who he works for, then again and again till he starts hyperventilating and passes out. “Shit!”

I sit back and wait, cleaning my blade and keeping an eye on my other prisoner. He came around at least an hour and a half ago and hasn’t murmured a single word. Even when he pissed himself fifteen minutes ago, he didn’t mutter anything.

“Who do you think he works for, honey?” I ask, spinning my head towards him as, in shock, he stumbles back onto the cot. I rise and go to stand at his cell. “Who do you think he works for?”

“I-I-I d-d-don’t kn-n-now!” he stammers out.

“Do you still think he works for The Armoury?”

He shakes his head and hangs it down to the floor. “I-I-I d-d-don’t know what’s h-h-happening.” He looks up at me and back down again.

There’s a murmur as Gerald starts to come around again. “Well, hello there, sugar.” I walk over to him. “Ready for round two?” I say in my sugary, sweet voice. I’ve swapped my scalpel for my skinning knife. “So, sugar, I thought we could ramp things up a tad.”

I slide my skinning knife into the wound on his thigh, and as he screams, I slide it parallel to his skin just under the surface and start to slice a patch of skin off. He starts sobbing and crying out, “P-p-please don’t, pl-l-ease?”

I hear heaving from the other guy as he starts to puke as I remove my first piece of flesh. “Bless your heart, honey. You might wanna look away. It’s only gonna get worse from here.”

Gerald still screams and sobs as I remove another piece, then another. “S-s-stop p-p-please!” He sobs. “P-please!”

“Just tell her what you know, Gerald, please. It’s not worth it. Just tell her!” the other guy yells out toward Gerald.

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