Page 19 of Pink Ink

The first time Shepherd nudged me toward a target, slipped their file into my hand, and said “Let it all out” was a monumental point in my adolescence. I finally got a taste of true, unrestrained freedom. It would change any nineteen-year-old.

Normally, my ownpassion projects, as one might call them, take weeks of meticulous planning: storyboards, the perfect song to play in the background, color analysis, lighting, any subsequent paintings or sculptures inspired by their deaths.

All I’ve had with Matthew is forty-eight hours and a prayer to the art gods, and it’s paying off. New York’s finest will appreciate the beauty in this one.

They say every masterpiece requires a little suffering. I take that literally.

The blood-soaked mallet crushes the distal phalanx of his left index finger. He screams and thrashes, like he did with every bone prior. Ambience is an important part of the process, but the incessant screaming is more irritating than anything else.

“Have you been counting?” He might have. I wasn’t really listening.

I’m still not sure what to name this particular piece, or what to create from it.

“Please. I d-don’t know who you are. Take my money! You can have it.”

He cries when the proximal phalanx shatters.

“No, thank you. I have enough of my own.”

I carefully adjust him to keep the blood within a certain parameter. If it soaks into the rug, I’m going to bereallyupset. I may even need to start again.

“I—I have a wife and kids.”

“Ah yes. Linda. I visited her at her work. Lovely lady.” Nothing like my mother.

“My kids—”

“Are staying at a friend’s house. I’m aware.”

“You can’t—”

“Do this? I believe the word you’re looking for isshouldn’tdo this.” I line up my next hit. “Let me make it easier for you to understand by putting it in a sentence. I, Matthew Collins,should notbeat my wife.”

“No! I’m a family man,” he pleads. Roland says the same line during his high-saint reelection campaigns. “We go to church every week. I—I would never touch—”

“What number are we up to?” Another bone cracks beneath the mallet. “Thirteen,” I answer for him.

He screams, attempting to squirm his way out from under my boot. I press harder into his shattered elbow, worsening his wails.

I inspect my work. The blood from his knees, feet, shoulders, and elbows pool onto the wood. The bones in his hands are broken beyond repair, butthere’s only a speck of crimson on the wedding band still wrapped around his crooked finger.That one’s for you, Mother.

Matthew is as naked as the day he was born, ready to be cleansed for a divine reckoning.

“Thirteen,” I repeat. “Two syllables, yet the number thirteen holds many meanings. Do you know what they are?”

He shakes his head, sputtering on his tears. “It’s—It’s the devil’s number.”

Well, yes. Close enough.

“Some ancient cultures believe that it means femininity for the number of menstrual and lunar cycles in a year,” I explain. “In Judaism, it signifies the age that a boy matures and—”

“I’m a good man. I—”

The last finger bone breaks. “Fourteen. It’s rude to interrupt.”

He whimpers and clamps his lips shut, muffling his pathetic cries.

“In Norse mythology, Loki was the thirteenth to arrive at a feast in Valhalla. The number thirteen is both good and bad. In your case, it’s the reason why I’m here.” It’s not like he’s in any position to call me out on my lie. “Thirteen. That’s how many times you’ve sent Linda to the hospital in the past four years.”