Broken, Part III

The woman was stirring, moaning. She looked up at me, and then at Vincent. She maybe looked at the knife, too, because something spooked her. She back up against the wall, and curled into a ball.

Slowly moving across the room, I set the knife on Vincent’s belly because there was no reason to approach her with a weapon in my hand. She was scared. No, terrified. Petrified that I would kill or hurt her more than what she had already endured. Truthfully, she was already hardened by what he had done to her. I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t all there anymore, but still a part of her feared something. Maybe she feared living on just to suffer more pain at the hands of a madman.

When I reached her, I stopped. She turned her face away from me, cowering form my presence. To lessen my effect on her, I kneeled to show that I wasn’t a threat. It didn’t work. I thought maybe a touch might prove that I had no ill will toward her, but as soon as my fingers barely grazed the fine hairs of her skin, she flinched. Therefore, I decided to try a different approach, one that I was certain would work.

I stood and said, “Nothing I say will make you trust me, but if you give me just a—” Immediately, Vincent interrupted me by planting the knife deep in my shoulder. He and I both fell forward, landing on the ground next to the woman. She scurried back as far as the chain tether would allow her, and she balled up even more.

The pain seared, and I couldn’t feel my fingertips. My arm was going cold, numb. He had done considerable damage. He pulled the knife free, and I rolled over, determined to make sure he didn’t get another chance at me.

He screamed, “You!”

I kicked out for his shin, hoping to snap one of them. It didn’t work, but it did stagger him enough to make him fall backward. Apparently, he was still a little drunk from the fall earlier.

I scrambled up, favoring my arm. When I was over him, he tried swiping at me with the knife, but I wasn’t scared of it. If he was trying to stab me, perhaps that would be one thing, but a bit of sliced skin was hardly a concern for me. Luckily, he only managed one good swipe before I kicked him in the groin. He coughed, loosened his grip on the knife, and then I kicked it from his hand. He winced as the knife clanged against the wall.

It’s funny how things in life are always a sort of mild grey rather than black and white. For instance, I had originally been very disgusted by his weight and health. Now, as he struggled to keep his breath, I was happy and thankful. He wasn’t healthy enough to fight back without a weapon. To be fair, he did have powerful legs, but as soon as I straddled him, he wasn’t strong enough to get me off. After hitting him in the face, he was out cold again.

Looking at the table to see what had gone wrong, it appeared he’d cut through some of the straps. My desire to show compassion to that girl had caused me to make a huge mistake. I left the weapon with him, and for that I paid dearly.

There was no way they would hold him again, but at that point, it no longer mattered. With my arm completely useless, I knew it was impossible for me to get him back up there.

After walking over to the knife and picking it up, I said, “You don’t have to trust me, woman. I’ve done some pretty nasty things. You don’t have to fear me, either.”

I barely recognized my own voice. So strange was the man inside me that I wasn’t certain I could trust my own words.

She didn’t flinch when I neared her again. It was as though she knew, despite her self-preservation, I wasn’t going to harm her. I felt like she still didn’t trust me, and she had a right not to, but at least we were making progress. I offered up a bit more reassurance when I reached up and removed the inch-thick cotter pin holding the chain to the ceiling.

“There,” I said, and stepped back. “You’re free.”

She looked up at me, more timid than ever I’d seen of someone. She was as a child might be when confronted by a stranger. I don’t know how long she’d been down here, but her soul and will had been broken, reducing her to distrust all, no matter if it was God himself standing before her.

I returned to Vincent and knelt down. He was still sleeping, but I knew I had to get to work soon because he’d wake up and put up another fight, which was something I really wasn’t in the mood for.

As I retrieved the knife from my belt, the woman stood. The skin around the wrist where her hand had been removed was crudely sewn shut. It was red, and looked sore. She winced, but didn’t reach for the stump. No, she reached for her crotch, and judging by the way she held her knees together as she walked, taking her hand wasn’t the only fucked up thing her did to her.

The woman walked as far as she needed, and then dropped to her knees. She started to cry, deep heaves as she probably recalled all the disturbing things he did to her. As I sat there, I felt for her, which was something I didn’t think would ever happen. However, I couldn’t help thinking about how my wife and daughter felt at the hands of these maniacs. How scared and broken they were before these fuckers killed them.

She raised her hand, and pounded her fist into Vincent. She hit him repeatedly until she no longer had the energy. Surely, it did no damage because her body was broken, probably more broken than my emotions. She probably just didn’t have the strength to make him hurt. At least that’s what I thought, anyway.

“I’m Oliver,” I told her, and tried to give her a smile. I couldn’t. “I know… I know what you went through, even though I can never know how you feel. He… he took my wife. Not him directly, but he let them have her. Let them have their way with her. Then they killed her, but they made her suffer first. Tortured her. Broke her.”

I felt the heat burn my face as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I couldn’t meet her eyes, but I knew she was watching me.

I continued, “He was the one…” I had to pause, because this was the worst part. It was all bad, but this made me who I am today. “He hurt my baby. My little girl. Wrapped his giant hands around her frail little neck, and he…”

It was there I cried. I hadn’t talked to anyone about what happened because I didn’t think anyone could possibly understand, but this woman knew. She had been in their place, and no doubt, had I not shown up this night, maybe she’d have ended up with rings around her neck as well—if not a bullet through the skull.

She reached out with her hand, her fingers shaking with either fear or malnutrition—or both. I looked at her for a moment, and didn’t need to ask what she wanted. I handed her the knife. She looked at the blade, and then at Vincent. The contempt twisted her face, turning her from a broken albeit beautiful woman into a monster. I knew what she wanted to do, so I laid next to Vincent, wrapped my good arm around his neck to hold him still, and nodded to her.

She didn’t hesitate to get to work stabbing him. He woke up on the first one that entered his leg, and he screamed. No doubt the guards would come running if he kept it up, so I placed my numb hand in his mouth. I wondered briefly if he could remember the taste because as he bit down during his muffled call for help, all those memories of what he did to me came rushing back.

She stabbed and stabbed, and he called out in pain. Most of her attack centered on his penis and hands, and I don’t blame her. Those were a source of pain for her. They were the things that destroyed her.

Soon, he wasn’t screaming any more. Vincent had gone limp, but she continued to stab him. She let out a whimper of anger each time she stuck that blade into his body.

After pulling my hand free from his mouth, I inspected the teeth marks he’d left. I was bleeding, but not bad. It probably would have been painful if I could feel it. Thankfully, I couldn’t.

The girl finally stopped stabbing him, leaving the blade buried deep into his crotch. I looked at her, and she looked at me. Her face was striped with strands of his blood, which also spackled her chest and arms. He was as good as dead, and even though she clenched her teeth in anger, I still detected a small amount of satisfaction written on her face.

“I’ll help you get out of here,” I told her, but she nodded to refuse. I said, “What?”

She nodded again, and pulled the knife from its fleshy sheath. I thought perhaps she meant to kill me, but she instead brought the blade to the left side of her neck and cut through her own carotid. The blood squirted a couple times, and as her body weakened, she dropped the knife. She laid down gently onto the sealed concrete, and bled out until she passed away.

I watched her for a long while, and I longed for the kind of peace. The sounds of silence after death. All of life’s problems for her were gone, now. Perhaps I didn’t condone suicide, but the way this girl looked now, was beyond perfect. She had endured so much, and now that she had confronted and killed the man that hurt her, she finally stepped out of this horrible world to find peace in whatever laid beyond.

As I stood and headed for the exit, I knew that one day it would be my turn to enjoy that eternal sleep, that moment of peace. For now, though, I had one more stop to make. I had to go see the man that started all this pain and anguish. The man responsible for so many lives lost, including my beautiful girls. It was time to see my father.

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Broken, Part II

As you might’ve guessed, the people that ruined my life were part of a crime organization. I didn’t much care about the organization itself. It was the people that happened to be a part of it that concerned me. Namely, specific people on my list that I have killed or would eventually kill. At that moment, I had only one person in mind, and that was Vincent. Vincent Gianulias.

It was still warm out when I arrived at his address, sticky even. Maybe it was just me, maybe it was because I no longer had the protection of the gun with me. I had to leave it in the car because neighborhoods like this don’t take too kindly to the sound of gunshots in the middle of the evening.

Vincent’s house stood on the east end of town in a gated neighborhood. Most of the wealthy people lived in this area. I can’t say for sure if all of them were as dirty as Vincent, but if I had to guess, I’d say that most people with a pretty penny to pinch have fucked someone at some point in their life to get where they are today.

The perimeter had a modest amount of security, but I didn’t expect much resistance. In my endeavor, I wasn’t starting from the bottom and working my way up murdering their ranks. Vincent had no reason to believe that I would be coming for him. Everyone I killed was dead and gone. They had no recognizable connection because all those evil pricks had such hefty criminal records that anyone from any point in their life could be picking them off. Vincent might have increased his security, but because of the kind of man he was and the things he did in that house, he favored his privacy. His paranoia was my advantage.

Contrary to the lives of monsters in general, and as I mentioned before, my beef was only with the people responsible with murdering my family and leaving me a broken wreck of a man. That said, I took no issue with the guards, and I didn’t really feel the need to kill them, so I slipped into the house through a jimmied window without detection.

Most of the rooms were dark, which made it easy for me to move around. What didn’t make it easy was the fact that I had been here before this night. The last time I wasn’t an intruder. I was Vincent’s guest, and as a result, those damned off-cherry scented candles he used sickened me.

I made my way through the kitchen, and wasn’t the least bit surprised what I found on the counter. Two severed hands. One looked like it belonged to a young woman, the fingers slender, long and delicate. I wondered if she, too, was a pianist before this fate of hers, but I didn’t dwell too much on it. The other hand looked as if it belong to a man, one considerably higher in age with knotted knuckles that resembled the roots of an old oak tree.

When Vincent was eating my hand, he spoke about how much he liked arthritic joints. The inflamed tissue around the knuckles were especially yummy, which he likened to veal or filet minion. Lightly salted, naturally full of flavor.

A normal person might rear in disgust, but I didn’t have the luxury of being a normal person. I was special. When you endure something horrific, no matter what it is, you become either desensitized or less vulnerable to stimuli than your average person. People who experience famine are less likely to complain about having to eat liver. Those that are poor are more likely to accept a modest place to stay, even if it’s a cardboard box full of holes. Me? Well, I’m more likely to not care if there’s a half-eaten hand sitting in front of me, because nothing will ever compare to watching a grown man chew and suck the meat right off my fingers while still attached.

I moved into the living room, and some of the stink of cooked flesh had finally thinned. The sofa sat in the middle of the room, and directly in front of it was a large television. Tucked in the corner was a small oak and glass table topped with a dying plant. I guess when you’re too busy killing, you don’t have time to keep things alive.

As I moved through this room toward the next, I heard a door open and close. The sound of the footsteps indicated that the person was either ascending or descending stairs. There was nowhere for me to hide, so I needed to decide which location to monitor. Either he was coming from the basement or the second floor. A few more steps echoed through the room, and I positioned myself at the top of the basement staircase. I wasn’t sure if he was coming this direction, but I knew that I could see most of the second-floor stairs from the reflection in a nearby grandfather clock, which meant this was the safest place to wait.

My intuition proved to be accurate when he arrived at the head of the basement steps. When his eyes met mine, they widened with surprise. He intended to call out, to alert the guards, but he didn’t have that free moment. I struck him hard in the chest with the full force of my body weight, and he choked on his own breath. He slammed hard against the wall, and tumbled back down the stairs. I quickly followed after him, expecting to fight, but the fall had either knocked him out or killed him.

I checked his pulse. Alive. Good.

The fact that Vincent was overweight bothered me. It wasn’t because I had to struggle to drag him deeper into the basement or because I had some deep-rooted issue with people who were overweight. I was strong enough to handle men twice his size, and I didn’t give a dsmn about how he looked. When someone murders your family, your thoughts and ideals shift. No longer do you care about someone’s weight, their acne, or if some asshole cut you off in traffic. That stuff doesn’t matter because you just don’t care anymore. You generally only have one thing on your mind. Murdering the mother fuckers who did you wrong or killing yourself, and to be honest, there’s no shame in taking the low road.

Anyway, his weight bothered me because it was a physical testament to the amount of food he ate. More specifically, the amount of human flesh he consumed. I don’t know how much he had to eat to become this disgusting creature, but it had to amount to a lot of people.

After some effort dealing with his dead weight, I was finally in the middle of the dark basement. I dropped him, and heard his head smack against the concrete—or whatever material from which the floor was made. I headed back toward the stairs, tripping over his body in the process. He moaned, and I kicked him for good measure. He grunted, and moaned again.

Quickly, I walked to the wall where the light switch was at and turned it on. The entirety of the basement lit up, and revealed what I can only imagine was his torture chamber.

On one entire wall, he had an assortment of stainless steel cutting, ripping, pulling, and snipping tools. All of them were so clean they reflected the rest of the room pretty clearly. Across from those dark utensils, he had a table, complete with an industrial drain. The wall adjacent to the weapons had different bins containing an assortment of binding equipment.

My eyes finally reached the other side of the room, and that’s where I saw her. She was barely an adult, maybe nineteen or twenty. She was chained nude against the wall, one arm hanging from a high-slung handcuff, the other hanging slack by her side, probably didn’t bother shackling it since he had removed her hand; it was likely the one I saw in the kitchen. She was either passed out or dead, because her face hung down. The only thing keeping her upright was her good arm.

Next to her was a man, and he was most certainly dead. He was propped against the wall, one eye stared blankly toward the ceiling, the other cut out and missing. One of his hands was gone, too. He wasn’t as old as I had thought, and he was in good physical condition. My guess was the inflammation in the hand upstairs was some reaction to the cutting. I didn’t know, though. I never was good with biology.

The smell down here was reminiscent of nearly rotted meat mixed with a fresh cut of steak. It was metallic from the amount of blood he spilled, but it was also slightly sweetened by the solvents he used to clean up. He apparently liked Pine-Sol the best.

There wasn’t much time left before Vincent would wake, so I wrestled him from the floor, threw him over my shoulder, and walked him to the table. I wasn’t graceful when I tossed him onto that metal slab. The sound echoed through the basement, and he grunted as I wasted no time using the straps to tie him down.

The wall of tools drew my attention, and I didn’t have to study them long before I knew what I wanted. After picking the large knife from its perch, I heard someone behind me. I whirled around, heart hammering, and I expected to find an alerted guard. Instead, I found something much worse.

Broken, Part I

“When I was a little boy, I never thought I’d become a hero, but as you well know, all of that changed with Vincent Gianulias,” I told Byron, the man kneeling in front of me. “Well, I guess I ended up more like an anti-hero.”

For the most part, he had kept his head down, but he had finally looked up at me. No doubt he avoided eye contact because he’d heard rumors that if you don’t look at the person with the gun, they’ll be less inclined to blow your head off. I didn’t know how true that was, and probably neither did Byron, but he would soon learn where the truth lied with this particular situation.

His eyes reflected both the cool white of the florescent lights and his deep regret for his life choices. He hadn’t, up to this point, understood the kind of man that he was to people. Criminals rarely do until they’re confronted with something that forces them to face the reality of their actions. Byron, the man with his skull pressed against my gun, only just learned that karma was not just a bitch, but a bi-polar cunt-whore with a serious beef. That was me.

His voice was meek. “I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

I said, “You asked me why I’m doing this, right? Well, you know Vincent, don’t you?”

He remained quiet. The tears in his eyes wanted to tell me a story of his fear and anguish, but it was of little matter to me. I knew he was scared. I didn’t care.

“Right?” I said louder, and pressed the muzzle harder into his skull.

Through his pointless sniveling, he said, “Okay, yes, I know him.”

“I knew that, but I wanted you to admit it. Not that it matters, but do you know what he does to people?”

He remained silent again, but this time, I didn’t really bother to force an answer out of him.

I said, “You see this?”

I lifted my right hand, and showed him what Vincent had done to me. Three fingers were missing, the pinky, the ring, and the brother. Half my palm had webs of skin forming into slick, mountainous scars. The two remaining digits didn’t work, but these days, it didn’t matter. Nothing I did anymore required two fully functional hands. Granted, it would help, but it wasn’t necessary.

That wasn’t true two years ago, though. In the past, I was a pianist. My wife once told me that I had the skill of one of the greats; that I played as gracefully as a silken scarf dancing in a soft breeze—her words. I spent my days practicing as she listened while reading novels, and I reserved my nights playing at Lucille Hall to no empty seats.

Now, I’m a murderer. The last graceful thing I did was entering this place without breaking the door down. Monsters aren’t supposed to be fluid. They aren’t supposed to feel that special positive energy that drives them to be smooth operators. They made me this way, and this way I shall be.

“Please don’t hurt me, man,” he pleaded, but it was in vain. I already knew I was going to kill this man. Him and everyone else who took everything away from me.

Pulling the hammer back on the Magnum made a click that sent a shiver down my back; the kind of satisfying sound that made my heart skip a beat. Perhaps I wasn’t destined to become a monster, but I felt giddy like a child on occasion. Some really dark things triggered that feeling, which made me wonder from time to time if I had this darkness in me all along. I didn’t care either way by that point, but it was fun to think about sometimes.

“Henry?” Selena’s voice was as soft as the first movement of moonlight sonata. It was more melodious than cannon D. It was the strings from which happiness could be woven just as the high-carbon steel in my old Steinway Grand gently hammered its descants. It was too bad, then, that she had been dead for over a year because I truly believe her real voice could have saved his life—and more importantly, mine.

I looked over, and Selena stood just beyond the coffee table. She was wearing the silver dress from the night we first met. Golden rings hung lazily from her wrist and neck, reminding me of that New Year’s party. She smiled, and I return the favor, though I imagined mine was as empty as my home and my soul.

“Hey, man, wh—what are you doing?” Byron asked, but I ignored him.

Selena,” I said, my voice cracking. I swallowed a hard, thick lump, nearly choking. My heart thumped in my ears, my face felt numb.

“Are you being crazy right now, ‘cause—” Byron tried to say, but I smacked him with the revolver.

“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed, and then to Selena I calmly said, “I thought you were…”

She interrupted, “What are you doing?”

There was a moment of weakness in me just then, brought forth by the memories of old. Standing in front of her, I felt guilty, like I was doing something of which she would never approve, but then I remembered what happened, and all I could see was red. “Making them pay. Making all of them pay.”

The air conditioner kicked on, and little tassels attached to the vent drifted languidly in place. Her black hair didn’t tussle, didn’t rustle. Her dress remained stagnant. She said, “This isn’t you.”

“It is now,” I said, and pressed the muzzle into Byron’s cheek. I imagined squeezing the trigger and watching his broken, shattered teeth blowing through the other side.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does. All these mother fuckers took you away from me. Took Sadie away from me.”

I closed my eyes, and sighed. They took my humanity. None of them deserved to live.

Byron, realizing that he wasn’t going to survive, pleaded uncontrollably with deep sobs of regret and shame. I looked down at the pathetic man who was all too willing to do the dirty work, but when it came time to pay for his actions, he whimpered like a little bitch.

I kicked Byron over, and put my foot on his chest. Selena said, “Sweetie, don’t.”

That’s what she called me back then, back when I rubbed her feet every night before bed. She told me I did it to strengthen my fingers, but I truly only did it because I loved her. This was back when I made dinner every night before the concert, and despite my sometimes lingering insomnia, cuddled her for comfort until she fell asleep. Those were the days I probably was considered sweet, but just like everything in this world, I became sour, unpalatable.

I looked away from my wife’s gaze for it had a calming effect I didn’t like. This burning pain inside was what drove me to do what needed to be done, and I couldn’t have her take that away from me. I needed it. I needed to keep this darkness in me that prevented me from giving a damn about anything.

“Please, don’t—” Byron began to say, but I stomped on his head before he could finish. One is all it took, and the thirteen times after that were for me. For Selena. For Sadie.

When my eyes returned to Selena, she was no longer wearing that glittery silver dress. It had become a torn blouse and panties. Her hair wasn’t in curls but instead knotted and caked with dirt. Her skin was mottled with grime and dried blood. One shoe was missing, the other still attached to the swollen foot at the end of a broken and twisted leg. Her left eye was missing, gouged out by one of these bastards. At the time, I didn’t know which one or I might have done the same to them.

Sadie appeared next to her. Her blonde matted hair hung over her shoulders, decorating the dark purple rings around her neck. Neither of them smiled, as if they disapproved of my choices. Perhaps if I was still the man they knew, I might have cared. I wasn’t. I didn’t.

After using Byron’s shirt to wipe as much as I could get of the blood, brain, and skull fragments from the bottom of my shoe, I walked to the door. I looked back, and my wife and daughter had vanished. Maybe they’d show up at Vincent’s house, where I would finally put an end to the life of the man who tried to eat me alive. Maybe they wouldn’t. I hoped they would, because I still missed them, despite my broken emotions and my damage humanity. If they didn’t, that was okay, too. At least I’d still get some satisfaction force-feeding Vincent his own damn body parts.

To be continued next week! Do you like my stories? Read more here!

Snapped: The Tale of a Mad Barista

The coffee rolled from the center of the counter, passed through a pool of blood, and then dripped from the edge. The tick tick tick could be heard in the now silent cafe. Blaine Carver looked at his work, smiled, and tilted his head ever so slightly as he thought about how much better he could do. He then left through the double-pane glass doors leaving the bodies of the customers and employees to stew in this hot summer weather.

After quitting at the cafe and before leaving, he had washed his machete. He did this because he knew no one would understand what he’d done. The bloody weapon would likely set off more alarms than merely the act walking down the street with a clean one in his hand, and although the walk wasn’t too far, he didn’t want to take the chances.

The other reason he wiped her down was that Lacy deserved the pampering. She was the epitome of craftsmanship. The black anodize accentuated the polished edge of this perfectly ground blade. He couldn’t let people see her in any condition other than pure perfection when he wasn’t busy slicing or dicing.

Not surprisingly, no one noticed the 18-inch blade in his hand, or if they did, they didn’t say anything. This wasn’t anything he thought as unusual. In the past, he’d seen and heard people ignoring the brutality of life simply so they wouldn’t have to get involved. From a wife getting beat on in the middle of the street to the local Kroger being robbed at gunpoint to rape to murder. He knew no one cared, and if they did, it was because they were busybodies that needed the attention.

As he entered the publisher’s building, the first thing Blaine noticed how beautiful the woman at the front desk was, and he even caught himself trying to hide the machete behind his leg. This, of course, made Lucy all the more obvious, and the secretary immediately became terrified. Blaine didn’t waste time. He ran up to her, and she screamed as she picked up the phone. It didn’t take long for her to register that calling for help was going to take too long, so she got up to run. She didn’t make it far. He planted Lucy right between her neck and shoulder as hard as he possibly could.

He tried to pull it free, but he buried it too deep. The blood poured out of her neck, wetting her clothes as she gurgled for help. The wound of mangled, torn flesh reminded him of barbecue roast beef. It was his favorite dish growing up, not by choice but because it the was only meal his father would eat. For this reason, his stomach gurgled. God, did he hate his father.

He wiggled Lucy a couple times but she was stubborn. So, he resorted to putting his foot on her back and pushed. Lucy finally released her bite, and he pulled the wedged weapon free.

As the receptionist fought for her life, he considered giving her another whack to the back of her skull just to end it. After all, she was beautiful. She didn’t deserve this, but he thought it might expend too much energy. He needed more if he was to pull back on at least another forty people.

She’ll die anyway, he thought as he went to her computer. Perhaps maybe she deserves to suffer. Who’s to say otherwise?

Blaine wasn’t familiar with the internal mainframe, but he was able to navigate well enough to find the number to the office of the man who made him do this, the man who took away his future.

The receptionist was an early casualty, he had planned to kill Frank Villas first and then kill as many people as he could on his way out. He had also suspected, however, that he would have to do some bad things on the way to Franks office, and that was okay as long as he got his chance to kill him.

The elevator dinged a few times, and the slow-moving car finally made it to the first floor. When the doors opened, there were three people inside. An attractive man in his 40s stood to the right of two women. He was the kind of man that needed attention, and he didn’t care from who he got it. One of ladies was almost too heavy to agree with the internal weight management system of the elevator, but she was still too big for comfort. The other woman was slender, but boring. Probably a religious freak who couldn’t be bothered to show a little skin once in a while.

I can’t let them leave, he thought, knowing full well if they saw what he did to the receptionist, they’d call the police and end it all for him.

They tried to push past him, but he didn’t let them. The obese woman took a whack to the head, and her skull split clean in two. The man tried to grab Blaine, but with quicker movements, Blaine was able to hack of one of the man’s hands, which dangled loosely by nary a thread of skin. He stabbed him through the neck. Ashe pulled Lucy free, the slender woman tripped over the larger one, and when she went down, Blaine held Lucy against the woman’s neck.

He knelt down close enough to talk into her ear, and he said, “Why are you so prude?”

She only whimpered, unable to comprehend his question in the face of all the fear and confusion.

He continued, “Such a pretty bitch like you, I’ll bet you’d have made some skunky church whore a happy man.”

She started to scream for help, but he quickly stabbed her in the back. It was difficult the first time, but after the second stab, the blade broke through her rubs and punctured her lungs. She gasped for air for a short moment until he hacked her neck a few times to fully decapitate her.

He stood, a little woozy and out of breath. Looking at the aftermath, he had to drag the bodies out of the way of the door, which was going to take a little effort. One he moved all three, though, the elevator doors closed and it rode smoothly all the way to floor M.

In the hallway, he looked around and found a gold plate riveted to the wall. It had Frank Villabos’s name, under which was the office number M213, and and arrow pointing down the hallway.

It couldn’t be any easier, he thought.

No one bothered him as he made his way through the corridors. When he finally reached Frank’s office, the door was ajar. Sitting in one of the seats was a little girl who couldn’t reach the floor. Franks was laughing and telling her a joke about some disney character. Blaine stepped inside and closed the door.

“Who are you?” Frank asked, and his face when ghost white. He had no idea who was in his office, he he certainly knew what the bloody machete meant. He said, “Please, leave my daughter out of this. For the love of God, let her go.”

Blaine walked to the girl, looked down, and smiled. She was crying by then, her tears wetting the sides of her face. He smoothed her golden brown hair out of the way, and said, “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

He stepped back and pointed at the door with Lucy. The girl hesitated, and Blaine screamed, “Now!”

She hopped off the chair, and started across the room. She tripped over her own feet, struggled to get up, and rant to the door. She struggled again to open the heavy door, but she finally got it open. She ran screaming down the hall and Blaine approached Frank.

Frank said, “What do you want, man?”

“I want your head in my refrigerator.”

“What the f–” Frank started to say, but Blaine hacked the man’s head off. It took a few more tries than the woman on the first floor, but Frank was considerably meatier.

He set the Frank’s head on the desk, and right next to it he noticed a small letter written by the Frank’s daughter.

 

Dear Daddy,

 I love you very much. You are the best daddy. You always make me laff. Even when I am sad you make me feel happy. My teacher telled me to write this letter to you. You are a good daddy. I hope you have a good day. I hope we can go to the playground when you get home.

 Love,

 Natalie

 

It was at that moment, something changed in Blaine. He thought about how that little girl loved her father, and how good he must have treated her in order to get that kind of love in return. This was a love Blaine never knew. His father was an abusive drunk and his mother was a literal whore. There was no love at his house growing up. The only thing he could find to make himself feel better was writing, and that all came crashing down when Frank Villabos took it away from him.

Blaine stretched his arms, wiped the blade clean with his shirt, took Franks head by the hair, and left the office. Today would be his day to show everyone his pain. Today would be his day to teach the world they can’t mess with Blaine Carver, for this day he will finally shine.

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