Page 97 of Below The Surface
I pull a folding chair in front of me and straddle it, folding my arms against the back of the chair and leaning forward. I sigh and shut my eyes before diving into the story. Of course I keep out all the real personal bits. People comment they’ve never heard of the Servants of the Divine cult, and I’m glad it hadn’t spread further. A few rage about how they trusted Matt Brooks. I read all the comments, taking them all in.
“So, what can I get started for you tonight?”
Charles flops around, but we’d secured the chair to the ground. He isn’t going anywhere.
“Mmmrkmmmerrmerrr,” Charles tries to say something, but it’s jumbled. He’s probably trying to say Merrick, The Merman, but no one will possibly figure it out.
Kneecap him.
Cut off an ear.
Pierce his eyelids.
Hmmm. I push to my feet and grab the sledgehammer we found when looking through the abandoned building. “You know, Char. I’m gonna call you Char. It’s kinda fun that you can’t see the suggestions. You won’t know what’s coming.”
I lift the sledgehammer and bring it down on his left knee. The crunch makes me grin, and the howl is music to my ears. Mmmm sweet,sweetjustice. I whistle as I walk behind him, taunting him. I could have just smashed the other one from where I was, but what’s the fun in that?
“Oh, Char. Char. Char. Char.”
He shakes his head and I imagine the sounds he makes is him begging for me not to slam the sledgehammer into the other knee.
“You know, you’re never getting out of here alive, so it’s not like youneedyour kneecaps. Or knees. Or legs, for that matter.” I smash the sledgehammer down on the other knee. Another howl.
“This is only the beginning.” We should have stripped him to his underwear before we settled him on his throne for the night. Doesn’t matter. I drop the sledgehammer and pull the switchblade from my pocket to start hacking off his clothes.
I tap the earpiece. “You want in on this action? That was so satisfying.”
“No, baby cakes, I like watching you work,” Kendra says with a laugh.
I push the shredded parts of his shirt off, then rip open the legs of his slacks. Dallas acts as if he wants to help, but I shakemy head and he freezes. Hayden pulls him back to his spot against the wall. I can’t have Dallas distract me.
The commenters continue with their suggestions and I follow through with slicing bits of one of Charles’s ears off before taking the entire thing. I leave the other. Charles trembles with each new suggestion that I do. Pins under the nails is a classic and still one of my favorites. Breaking fingers. Scalping. That’s a new one, and it gives me the best reaction from Charles.
He’s babbling behind the gag as I rip the skin from his head so slowly. The sound makes me want to vomit. The open wound will be fun when it comes to waterboarding, though. Well, my version of waterboarding. I don’t know if it’s really a proper technique, but it’s what I’m planning. He’s shaking. This man has hurt countless people, I’m channeling their revenge.
“I love y’all,” I say to my audience. “But I’m going off script. I think you’ll still enjoy it, though.” I blow them a kiss and throw Charles’s scalp to the floor. Stomping all over Charles’s skin on my way to the bucket Kendra and I filled with bottom shelf liquor. This is going to fucking burn.
I throw the towel over Charles’s face, and this is where he really starts to panic. He pisses himself and I cackle.
“Don’t worry, Char Char. You won’t suffer for long. You won’t suffer for nearly as long as you should. You won’t even suffer for as long as you experimented on others.” I remove the gag, certain he won’t talk because he’s in too much pain to form words. Slowly, I dump the bucket over his face. Loving every second of the gurgling sounds coming from him, I whistle my happy little tune. His hands try to grab for something, but he’s strapped down too good. His legs are useless and he’s trying to flop again, but he’s just not going anywhere.
He coughs and sputters every time I stop the flow.
“Stop. Please. Stop. Mercy.”
“Did you show anyone mercy?” I pour again, stealing any words he might have had.
He stops moving, or making sounds. I stop the flow and frown. He can’t die yet. I push on his chest and he gasps out a choking breath. Thank fuck.
“Not done with you yet.”
“Bastard,” he grits out between coughs. “You’re going to?—”
I cut off his words with more bottom shelf liquor down the hatch. I pour until the bucket’s empty, then toss it away from us.
“That was fun.”
“You motherfucker.”
