Page 152 of Boulder's Weight

His breathing accelerates, shallow gasps that fill the silence as I prepare the tourniquet. "Boulder, please," he begs, using my road name, trying to create a connection. "My family has money. I can pay you?—"

"You know," I interrupt, tightening the tourniquet around his upper arm, "she never begged like this. Your sister. When you had her tied to a chair, when you were hitting her—she didn't beg. She faced you with courage."

The comparison silences him momentarily, shame flickering across his features.

"I'm going to start with the right hand," I tell him, picking up the saw. "Since you're right-handed, according to Kelsey. The hand you used to strike her. Is that the same one you used to pull the trigger on Craig."

Benji begins to scream now, thrashing against his restraints with desperation.

But the zip ties hold, cutting into his skin as he struggles.

"No one can hear you," I say calmly. "That's why we chose this place. No witnesses, no interruptions. Just you and me and what needs to be done."

I position the saw against his wrist, just below where the zip tie secures him to the chair.

The serrated edge catches on his skin, and he whimpers.

"I want you to understand something before we start," I say, looking directly into his eyes. "This isn't just punishment. It's prevention. Every time you've hurt someone, you've used these hands. Your father taught you to inflict pain with them, to control others. And now you'll never control anything again."

The saw breaks skin on the first stroke, blood welling up around the teeth.

Benji's scream is primal, raw, tearing from his throat despite the local anesthetic.

I continue, steady and precise, the saw cutting through flesh, then tendon, scraping against bone.

Blood spatters across the concrete floor, across my hands, my shirt.

The metallic smell fills the air, thick and overpowering.

I focus on my breathing, on maintaining an even pressure, on watching for signs of shock.

The sound is the worst part—the wet ripping of flesh, the grinding against bone, Benji's screams rising and falling as the saw works deeper.

I force myself to stay detached, to think of Kelsey's bruised face, of the fear that haunted her eyes for so long.

When the saw finally breaks through the last bit of tissue, Benji's hand drops to the floor with a dull thud.

I immediately apply pressure to the stump, wrapping it tightly with bandages to stem the bleeding.

He's sobbing now, his body shaking violently.

"One down," I say, more to myself than to him. "Three to go."

I move to his left hand next, repeating the process—antiseptic, anesthetic, tourniquet, saw.

The second time is easier in some ways, harder in others.

Easier because I know what to expect. Harder because I'm watching a man being systematically dismembered by my own hand.

Benji has stopped struggling, stopped begging. He seems to have retreated into himself, his eyes unfocused, tears streaming down his face.

But he's still conscious, still aware—exactly as intended.

After both hands are removed and the stumps bandaged, I take a break.

Clean my gloves, check his vitals, give him water through a straw.

He needs to remain alert for what comes next.

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