Page 114 of Ruthless Possession
I nod, continuing my work. Harris will die from this, the blood loss alone would eventually kill him, but we're taking our time. Ensuring he feels every cut, every separation, and every moment of agony.
His breathing grows shallow as we finish removing the skin from his torso. We've left his face intact as there's a certain poetic justice in letting him see what we're doing, in forcing him to witness his own unmasking.
"Water," I say, and Slaughter brings a bucket. We pour it over Harris's exposed flesh. His body jerks involuntarily at the contact, a fresh wave of pain washing over him.
"Check his pulse," I instruct Jackson, who presses two fingers to Harris's neck.
"Still strong," Jackson reports. "He's tougher than he looks."
Matthew stands back, surveying our handiwork. The man before us is barely recognizable as human, he's a raw, red mass of exposed tissue where skin once was. Yet he lives. He breathes. And he suffers.
"This is for Sarah," I tell him, making a precise cut along his arm. "This is for all the women you took."
Harris makes a sound that is not a scream, not anymore, but something between a whimper and a gurgle. His eyes find mine, and in them I see something I never expected to see from this monster: recognition. Understanding. The knowledge that he is experiencing exactly what he inflicted on others.
"Finish him?" Carter asks, his hand gripping a particularly large knife.
I shake my head. "Not yet. There's more to do."
We work in silence then, the only sounds Harris's labored breathing and the occasional wet sound of flesh being separated. We are artists, and this is our canvas. Each cut deliberate. Each movement precise.
When we're finished, Harris lies on the barn floor, his body a map of pain. He still breathes. His heart still beats. But he is no longer the man who took Morgan. He is barely a man at all.
Matthew kneels beside him. "Look at me."
Harris's eyes, the only part of him still fully intact, struggle to focus.
"You took what is mine," Matthew says quietly. "Now I've taken everything from you."
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small vial. "Morphine," he explains to the rest of us. "Enough to kill an elephant."
He injects it directly into Harris's heart. The effect is immediate. Harris's body relaxes, his breathing slows. For a moment, there's almost peace on his ravaged face.
Then nothing.
We stand in the dim light of the barn, surrounded by the evidence of our work. I feel no guilt. No remorse. Only the cold satisfaction of justice served.
"Clean it up," I tell the others. "Burn everything."
They nod and begin their work. Meanwhile, I step outside into the night, where Morgan waits with Trixie. The cold air hits my face, a welcome relief after the heat and blood of the barn.
Morgan looks up at me, her face illuminated by the moonlight. She knows what we've done. She knows, and she doesn't flinch.
"Is it finished?" she asks.
I nod. "He won't hurt anyone again."
She stands and walks to me, placing her hand on my chest. "Thank you."
I pull her close, burying my face in her hair. The weight of Harris is gone from our lives.
Behind us, the barn door opens. Matthew emerges, his face composed and his hands clean. He joins us without a word, his arm wrapping around Morgan's waist.
"We should go," he says. "The others are handling the cleanup."
I nod, leading Morgan toward the vehicles. Charlie is waiting at home with Morgan's mom.
Harris is gone. His shadow no longer hangs over our family. What we did tonight was monstrous, but necessary. Some men cannot be allowed to continue living in this world.
