Page 44 of F*ckboys

"Positive," I had replied with a conviction that still shakes me to my core. "He deserves everything he's about to get."

Grave had merely nodded, understanding the depth of my hatred for Dickson, and we'd driven the rest of the way insilence. Dickson, understandably surprised by our arrival at his home, was easily subdued. It's ironic how the men quickest to use their fists against people weaker than them, are usually also the most useless when it comes to defending themselves.

Grave takes a bottle of vodka and pours it into an industrial basin nearby, the liquid splashing against the metal surface. The sharp chemical smell of alcohol invades my nostrils, making me shudder.

"Last chance to change your mind," Grave offers me one final out, but I know there's no turning back now.

"Let's do this," I say, determination surging through my veins.

Grave hands me a rag soaked in the vodka, its frigid wetness seeping through the fabric and numbing my fingers. As I approach Dickson, his eyes flicker open, confusion and terror clouding his gaze. It's a look that sends a twisted thrill down my spine.

"Remember Janice, you sick bastard?" I spit the words at him like venom. "This is for her."

"My wife, Janice? Oh my god. This is because of her? Please," he sobs, his voice hoarse and broken. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt her."

Dickson's pathetic pleas for mercy slice through me, igniting a wildfire of fury that I struggle to contain.

"Didn't mean to?" I spit back, the venom in my words thick and lethal. "You nearly killed Janice, you piece of shit!" I can't help but imagine the pain she went through—the bruises, the broken bones, worst of all the psychological anguish—and it fuels my rage further.

"Fallon, let him speak," Grave says, an eerily calm presence beside me. But I can hear the edge in his voice too. He's as invested in this as I am. We're both seeking justice for our client.

"Alright, Dickson. Tell us what happened," I demand, my tone cold and unforgiving.

"Janice… she provoked me. She said things… made me mad." His excuses are weak, pathetic attempts at justifying his monstrous actions.

"Made you mad? So you decided to beat her within an inch of her life, is that it?" I seethe, digging my nails into my palms so hard that they draw blood. "Took away all of her financial independence so you could control her completely, even after you permanently disabled her?"

"Okay," he finally admits, choking on his tears. "I did it. I hurt her. But I swear, I'll change. I'll get sober, and I'll stop putting hands on her. Just please… don't hurt me."

"Change?" My laughter is bitter, hollow. "You think getting sober is going to erase the years of pain you've inflicted on people? You think it'll make up for what you did to Janice? That it will somehow cure her permanent disability and take away the mental scars you've inflicted on her?"

"Fallon…" Grave warns again, his hand gripping my arm. But I can't let this go, not when Janice still bears the scars of Dickson's cruelty.

"You're lying," I snarl, stepping closer to him. "You don't want to change. You just don't want to suffer the consequences of your actions."

"Please!" Dickson wails, desperation lacing his voice. "I'll do anything. I'll stay away from her. I won't touch another drop of alcohol ever again. Just please… don't kill me."

I place the alcohol-drenched rag over Dickson's face, covering his nose and mouth. His muffled pleas for mercy are barely audible beneath the thick fabric. I signal for Grave to begin pouring the vodka from the basin. The clear liquid cascades over Dickson's face, his choked gasps becoming more desperate by the second.

"Stop! Please!" he manages to gurgle between tortured breaths, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

"Did you stop when Janice begged you?" I growl, my voice laced with fury as I watch the liquid pool around Dickson's head. "No, you didn't."

I press the rag down harder, ensuring that every ounce of vodka seeps into Dickson's airways. His body convulses violently, the chair creaking beneath him. The sight of his suffering fuels my rage, pushing me to continue this torment. He coughs and splutters beneath the rag which only makes me hold on tighter and pour faster.

"Fallon," Grave warns, his hand on my shoulder. I know he's concerned that I'm going too far, that I might lose myself in this darkness. But the thought of stopping now feels like a betrayal. Dickson's head lolls to the side, his eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down his face as he continues to gag. Noxious vodka fumes threaten to overwhelm me as I stand just inches away from him, and I resist the urge to gag myself.

"Almost there," I snarl, refusing to relent. The vodka-soaked cloth smothers Dickson's face once more, and his body writhes in agony. I feel a sick satisfaction in watching him suffer, but it's not enough—not yet.

"Stop!" Dickson chokes out between desperate gasps for air. "I'll do anything you want—just please stop this!"

"Fallon, he's had enough," Grave insists, his hand tightening on my arm, pulling me away from the madness that threatens to consume me. My heart races, fueled by anger and adrenaline, but I reluctantly let go of the rag and step away from Dickson. His body slumps forward as he gasps for breath, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

"Fine," I snap, throwing the cloth aside and unfastening his restraints. "Get up, Dickson."

Dickson struggles to push himself upright, coughing violently as he tries to regain his breath. His tear-filled eyes meet mine, and I can see the fear that has taken root in his soul. Good.

"Remember this pain, Dickson," I hiss at him. "And listen carefully," I growl, moving closer until our faces are mere inches apart. "You will stay out of Janice's life. And you have five business days to have the conservatorship reversed and everything put back in Janice's name, including the assets you've been hiding from her. You will send her financial assistance in perpetuity for your criminal actions. Do you understand?"

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