Page 6 of The Cute Psycho

My eyes on the bodies, I wet my lips in excitement, all types of punishments going through my mind.

"They're all yours. We caught them stealing from the depot. We already have one for the hall."

Father regards Marcello's work, his lips tugging upwards at the abomination currently residing in the torture chair. It doesn't look human anymore, and as the new prisoners also glance upon the horror show, they realize their turn isn't far off.

Bringing some of his men in, he removes the work of art meant for display, and I take advantage of the brute force of the soldiers to ask for a few favors of my own. Seeing that Marcello isn't going to take the lead on this one, I might as well take advantage and fulfill one of my own fantasies.

Vanya will be so giddy when I tell her, since we'd developed this particular hypothesis together.

"Hang the prisoners to the ceiling," I start, pointing at the men on the ground. "Feet down."

Soon, father and his men are gone. I'm left with a melancholic Marcello, and I decide it's high time he stopped moping around.

And what could be more fun than the two Ms—murder and mutilation?

"Marcello," I call out to him, as I proceed to lay out my plans. I explain to him that this is a competition, and the aim is to cut as much of the body without killing them.

"They are most likely to die from blood loss, so we need to be careful with our slices. The one who cuts the most of the body and whose prisoner still lives is the winner," I say, satisfied with the game and excited to be on the winning side.

MaybeI am taking advantage of Marcello's tumultuous state to gain some leverage in this competition, since his cuts won't be as precise as always. Butmaybethis will be what he needs to get his head in the game.

After I've finished explaining the rules, he nods thoughtfully, agreeing with my terms.

We each build our own stash of knives, blades, saws, and other tools before proceeding to the prisoners' side.

"Start!"

We take a blade each, and we begin cutting. True to his work ethic, Marcello starts out small—he saws the ankles off.

Assessing my own project, I try to think strategically. Every single piece I cut will increase the bleeding.

Closing my eyes, I picture an anatomy book I'd read, looking for the major arteries and how they traverse the bodies. My best bet is to be mindful of the femoral artery and cut as high up as I can. As I mentally run through all the scenarios, I get another idea.

Smiling, I look at my stash, pleased to see a small flamethrower. It seems I'd anticipated it before even thinking it through.

I take one of the saws and I start cutting, centering my incision right where the hip socket meets the femur. I need to be as fast as possible to ensure minimal bleeding.

But while I have my entire plan accounted for, there is one thing that Marcello has over me—strength. Puberty has given him the advantage of stature and strength, so I'll have to find ways to bypass that.

Taking a small chair, I climb on top of it, so I'm at eye level with the prisoner's stomach. I stoop slightly for better access and I continue cutting.

When I reach the artery, the blood comes out in spurts, bathing my clothes. I barely avoid the stream to my face as I'm quick to use the flamethrower to cauterize the wound.

Marcello narrows his eyes at me when he sees my trick, and I just smirk.

"Not against the rules," I smirk.

He shakes his head, but doesn't comment further, using his own method to slow down the blood flow.

Smart.

He's switched positions, bringing up the man's legs closer to his chest and securing them there with a rope. The position ensures that the blood won't flow as fast due to gravity.

Finishing one thigh, I turn to the other. Every now and then I check to make sure the prisoner is still alive.

The sounds of steel against bone and the muffled cries behind the men's gags reverberate in the room.

When I'm done with the second thigh, the artery cauterized, the blood flow minimal, I stop to think of my next steps.

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