Page 39 of Cut Deeper

“Do you want to play in the basement?” I murmured.

She sauntered across the room until she stood beside me.

“Will my pretty outfit get dirty?”

“Very.”

She smiled and turned, already leaving the room. I was left staring at her bare backside and the tiny string of fabric resting above the curve of her hips. At this point,“strange” didn’t begin to cover our proclivities.

I shoved the covers aside and went after her.

Her delighted laughter drifted up from downstairs.

She was waiting for me by the staircase leading to the basement. As I approached, she held her hand out. I stared at her dainty hand and took it in mine, covering it entirely.

“Do you have a rib spreader?” she asked as we began our descent.

I considered the contraption, and what lay beneath the ribs.

“Are you going to hack him up?” I demanded.

“I don’t have my chainsaw with me.”

I shook my head as we reached the last step.

“All you need is a scalpel and the rib spreader.”

“Can we use a chisel and a mallet?” she asked, clapping her hands as I unlocked the door.

I pictured her chipping away at a rib with the chisel, then looked up to catch the excitement in her eyes.

“Whatever you want, baby,” I murmured, opening the door.

Chapter 21

Anne

This was so much better. No more aching lower back from dragging bodies around, sweating and swearing my way through it. It was fine if I didn’t bring them home, but then I couldn’t always get the pieces I needed on site—and sometimes I just wanted to carve them up.

Snip, stitch, slice. Then finish it all with my trusty chainsaw.

They were so supple while alive. But sometimes I wanted to watch the light die in their pathetic eyes. Owen and Daddy Dearest had underestimated me—underestimated the sheer amount of rage pent up inside me. It still surfaced from time to time, and part of me loved living inside it.

Then there was the police, the social workers, the therapists.

No one could believe a sixteen-year-old capable of such brutality. They found me lying between the two men’s body parts with a few superficial cuts—in deep shock, unable to help them much with their enquiries. Or so they believed.

After years of useless jobs, booze, drugs, and general self-destructive behaviour, I began to see my kills as a form of beauty. The red smears over surfaces, blades, and me. It took me back to my art lessons in high school.

The dull thud made me focus.

Ethan had Gareth on the operating table and began strapping him in. Gareth knew it was the end. The gutless sack of shitfinally took action—he swung for Ethan, who swerved just in time, the punch grazing his ear instead of landing clean.

In real time, I watched Ethan’s carefully constructed control collapse like a paper house. Beneath the harsh lighting above the table, his face darkened, colour flooding high in his cheeks.

His jaw clenched, and the simmering tension reached its conclusion. Before I could react, his arm whipped up, knuckles white as his fingers coiled into an iron fist. He cocked back, ready to drive it straight into Gareth’s face.

His hands were what created his art. They shouldn’t be damaged. Ever.