Page 23 of Careless

The night airis fragrant with dry grass as I drag Denzel into the musty warehouse. As futile as it is, he fights me, digging his heels in as we go. I slam the heavy steel door behind me and force him into the nondescript, folding metal chair. You wouldn’t know by looking at the benign item, but many a woman and man have died upon it for committing similar crimes.

“Man, please. Let me go. I didn’t break your stupid rules,” he pleads as tears fall down his face, but his annoying voice just earns him a punch to the temple. I know well enough what that hit can do. It causes disorientation, so it will take him a bit to recover.

I take the opportunity to untie his wrists and handcuff him to the chair before repeating the task with his legs. He’s fully restrained and completely helpless.

“Rian, please!” He sobs like a newborn baby, and I haven’t even started torturing him yet.

“Do you seriously think this is about the rules?” I huff as I grab the Bowie knife from my tray of tools and toss it from hand to hand. “You may have stayed within the Bastard’s rules, but you brokemyrules. I had Sorcha blacklisted for a reason, yet you thought it was okay to touchmygirl.”

The red hue cloaks my vision again as I glare at him, only seeing how he reduced my spitfire to a trembling mess when he touched her. Drawing upon that rage, I slam the knife into his thigh with all the force my body possesses. The bone stops it from going all the way through, but that’s to be expected. I step back to get the full picture of my handiwork. Blood gushes from around the blade before slowly seeping into his jeans. Dez throws his head back in a tortured wail that would alert any nearby witnesses. However, we are completely isolated.

“Fuck! Man, I didn’t know she was yours. If I did, I never would’ve messed with her. I swear!”

I grab the hammer off my tray and can’t help the sinister grin that pulls at my lips. Dez’s eyes widen as I bring it down on the knife’s handle, tapping lightly. The weapon barely sinks any further, but that’s the point. Metal against bone is a whole other sensation as the vibration can be felt throughout the whole body. He wails again as snot and drool combine with his tears. It run down his clenched face as he tries to focus on me with his bloodshot eyes. This little fucker has never felt real pain in his life. I bet he’s never even broken a bone. Well, not until today.

“Rian, I promise I’ll leave her alone,” he sputters out. “I won’t even look in her direction. Just, please, let me go.”

I believe him. He would probably run in the opposite direction if he ever saw Sorcha again, but this isn’t about teaching him a lesson. If it was, I would’ve just kicked his ass. No, this is about putting him in as much pain as possible before ending his miserable existence.

There are no second chances when it comes to my woman.

I twist the knife in his leg and he screams, convulsing like he’s having a seizure. I yank it out as ungracefully as possible when I’m done, blood quickly pooling in the gaping hole and pouring freely.

God, he’s a such a fucking pussy. If it was me, that cut would barely make me flinch, but I’ve conditioned myself to be able to block out the pain. My life is pain except for a few glimmers of light, most of which come from my woman.

“Are you done? You’re… going… to let… me go?” He asks his ridiculous question on a wheeze, struggling to see past the pain in his leg.

Is he really that stupid? I guess he is, or maybe he’s trying to cling onto the smallest shred of hope.

I revel in it, waiting a few seconds before I completely shatter that hope. He’s stuck in a limbo of my creation and I can’t help but bask in space where hope goes to die. “Now, why would I want to do something like that? Did you not put your hands on my girl? That can’t be erased. Everyone who touches her, dies. Anyone who looks at her funny dies. Anyone who accidentally bumps into her in the hallway dies. You haven’t seen the extent of my madness. You did the one thing that guarantees you a one way ticket to hell. And I promise you, the hell I create is way worse than your darkest imagination could ever muster. Denzel Slater, it’s going to be a long death, and it’s going to be excruciatingly painful to the point you’ll pass out. Then, I’ll pump you full of adrenaline to keep you awake and keep destroying this shell you inhabit. You won’t die until I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

Intense terror stills his body and his mouth opens on a loud gasp. I give him the most deranged smile I can muster, successfully scaring the shit out of him.

I take the dripping knife and cut his shirt down the middle, folding the fabric open before making work of carving up his skin, tossing the flesh onto my tray. I don’t bother with gloves, there’s just something about being able to feel someone’s blood leave their body. His throat strains as he yells at the top of his lungs. His terrified eyes are drawn to the slivers of crimson covered flesh on my tray as he tries to fight the restraints, but it's futile. The more he thrashes, the faster his life ends and drips to the cracked cement floor.

“You’re a fucking psycho!” he yells with his hoarse voice, but I just laugh.

“Stop squirming or my knife might slip.” I’m not taking all the skin on his chest, but he’s probably confused by the markings. The sharp blade slices through his skin like paper. The oozing blood is both calming and invigorating. It’s a drug I can’t get enough of.

“What?” he manages on a groan. His last bit of flesh hits the metal tray with a satisfying slap. “Do you want a closer look?” It doesn’t matter if he does. He’ll look anyway. I’m quite good at carving skin and I’m also quite meaningful with the messages I leave.

He’ll need to take a good look at himself in a mirror to appreciate my penmanship. Very methodical, however I may try for comic sans font next time. I put down the knife and grab a rag from the tray and haphazardly wipe my hands before pulling out my phone. I click on the camera app, flipping the focus view and holding it at eye level so my victim can see what exactly the words on his chest spell out.

“Is that clear enough for you? Do you get the message yet, Denzel? What does it say?” The blood running in rivulets makes it a bit hard to decipher, but by the anguish on his face, he can read it loud and clear. I put my phone back in my pocket, enjoying the heavy silence. It doesn’t last for long though.

“I already said I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?” he demands as if he has any control over this conversation. “That I wish I never touched her? Fine. I wish I never looked in her direct—”

I grip his hair at the root and yank his head back before screaming in his face. “What the fuck does it say?!”

“She’s your woman,” he barely utters the words through his trembling, broken speech.

“Whose?” I enunciate my point by tugging on his hair again, and he groans.

“Yours.” I watch as his soul shatters, and he accepts that he isn’t making it out of this warehouse alive. The death of his hope tastes almost as sweet as Sorcha’s dripping cunt does.

* * *

The blisteringwater of my shower does its best to rinse away the blood and sin of the night. But, I know that I will never get clean of it all. It’s a reality I accept with arms wide open. After a few moments of letting the spray beat at my tense muscles, I climb out of the shower. My door rattles as someone beats it with a fist and I know what’s coming.

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