Page 57 of Her Saint

The light in the kitchen flicks on. He forgot to lock the door. Mission accomplished. I hang up.

His home is in the middle of town. Not ideal. I’ll have to shut him up before I do what needs to be done. A nosy neighbor could bring a swift end to the job before I finish it.

Lights illuminate the second floor. Nancy isn’t home. Hours of research indicate that Nancy is oblivious to her husband’s extracurricular activities. Blissfully unaware of the young women who enter and exit through her front door. She’s out for a girls’ weekend. I can take my time.

I head inside, the hinges squeaking.

“Nancy?” Professor Molester calls.

He doesn’t get an answer. He’ll never hear Nancy’s voice again.

I grab a chair from the kitchen and carry it upstairs with me slowly. He hums to some bluesy song in the bathroom. Getting ready for bed after a long night of attempting to grope and coerce my muse into submission.

As I approach the bathroom, he spots my reflection in the mirror. “What the hell?—”

“Quiet, Professor,” I warn, pointing the pistol at him. “Have a seat.”

Professor Molester wept and pleaded well before I got the gag in his mouth. Now, he jerks at the ties binding his wrists and ankles to the chair.

When I pick up my gun, he screams around his gag. “Relax,” I coo. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

His shoulders relax, even as his gaze remains frantic.

“I’d have to scrub your brain matter off the walls, and that would be entirely too time-consuming.” I slip my gun back into the holster at my waistband before pulling out my knife. “No, I want a much more controlled bleed.”

The professor attempts to dig his heels into the floor, but the ties firmly hold his ankles in place against the legs of the chair.

I pace in front of him, stroking a finger over the dull edge of my blade. “You asked what I want from you. It’s simple really, Professor. I want your repentance.”

He weeps, the gag in his mouth soaked with his saliva, tears, and snot.

“But we both know you won’t repent of your own volition, don’t we? No. I’ll have to make you.”

He shakes his head wildly, trying to speak around the gag. But I’ve heard all I need to hear from him.

“You made her cry, Professor. And I have a rule about my muse.” I plant a hand on his arm fastened to the chair, pressing the blade against his neck. “If she cries, you die.”

He attempts to scream again, gaze darting wildly around the room as if someone will rescue him.

“This is going to hurt,” I promise.

I press the tip of the knife against his wrist and slice. A shallow cut to mark my target. He’s already wailing, flailing against his restraints. I do the same to the other wrist before smiling at him.

“Don’t worry, Professor. You have no use for your hands anymore.”

Without another word, I bring the blade down.

He screams so violently that I brace myself for the gag to project from his mouth. But it remains firmly in place, saliva dripping down his chin as blood pools at his feet.

My knife comes down on the other hand, both extremities lying severed on the floor.

He’ll never put his hands on my muse again.

I shut the door and lay down towels to prevent the pool of blood from flowing out of the room, the scent of copper coiling up my nose.

I sigh. “This is quite the mess you’ve made, Professor. I hope you have bleach.”

He’s growing limp now, swiftly losing consciousness from the blood loss. I’ll have to be quick. I want him to feel this final wave of agony.

---