Page 37 of Fetch

I creep around Punk to get a closer look at the remnants of my childhood. The prison that I traded for another when I failed to put him down. I won’t make that mistake twice.

He’s in his favorite spot, an old brown office chair that he stole from a yard sale. His sweaty pot belly hangs over the waist of his boxers. I inch forward, possessed, thirsty for blood. The light from the moon streaks over him, highlighting the scowl that never leaves his face. Not even when he sleeps.

I take my time zip-tying his ankles. Then I do the same to his wrists, binding them to the arms of the chair he loves so much. The one he’s about to die in.

“Careful,” Punk whispers.

I nod and press the tip of the blade to his neck. “Wake up, asshole.”

Punk slaps him across the face.

His eyes fly open, widening when he sees the doll-faced figure staring back at him. “What the fuck?”

“Did you miss me, Hank?”

“Roxanne? You stupid bitch.” As he jerks forward, Punk grabs his shoulders and pulls him back against the chair.

“Shhh. No one can hear you. Remember?” I drag the tip of the blade across his heaving chest. “Isn’t that what you used to tell me when I cried?”

His gaze shifts to Punk. “This bitch is crazy. You can’t believe anything that comes out of her mouth.”

Punk thrusts his thumb into Hank’s right eye. “Call her a bitch one more time, and I’ll fucking blind you.”

Hank’s gurgled cries exude the stale stench of liquor on his breath.

“Not yet, love. I want him to see what I do to him.” My belly flips with excitement. I trace the blade over his cheek, lapping up some of the blood that drips from his eye. I relish the purple bruise that’s starting to form under it.

“You’re going straight to fucking jail again, Roxanne. But this time you ain’t getting out. I’ll make sure of it,” he slurs.

I tilt my head to the side, wishing I could see myself through his eyes. “I think I’ll start with your fingers first. They’ve been very naughty.”

A rush of adrenaline surges through me when I slice into his index finger. Punk covers Hank’s mouth as he screams. I take my time sawing through the bone. “There. Only nine more to go.”

Hank’s face pales, and he slumps back in his chair. “I’m sorry. Please stop. I promise I’ll never touch you again.”

I snicker and repeat the process to his middle finger. “It’s too late for that.” His screams are deafening as I chop off his ring finger. “I didn’t come here for apologies. I came for blood. For vengeance.For penance.”

I don’t stop until his hand is nothing but a bloody stump. I am not Roxanne Luna anymore. I’m not even Roxy right now. I’m Punk’s disciple. I’m JillChick22. I’m the doll he ripped apart at the seams. But each pound of flesh I take, stitches another piece of me back together.

“He’ll black out before you finish his other hand. Time to end this, pretty girl,” Punk commands.

I nod in submission. But not out of weakness or lack of control. But because Punk is the only man I’ll ever submit to. I’m his sacred vessel. The light that his darkness is safe to roam in. Both our broken pieces fit together like a mosaic that’s been hidden for centuries. His fragments are mine, and mine are his.

I point the tip of the knife to his throat, pricking his skin. “Any last words, Hank?”

He glares up at me with his one good eye. “You’ll never be anything else but daddy’s little whore. You filthy fucking—”

Punk yanks my wrist forward, plunging the knife into Hank’s throat. “That’s about enough out of you.” We do it together, slicing through until the tip of the blade exits the back of his neck.

My body goes rigid, my muscles stiff, as I watch the beast of my nightmares die in front of me. “And you’ll always be dead,” I whisper in his ear.

When his head slumps to the side, Punk helps me pull the knife out. It’s not as easy as it looks on TV. There’s so much tissue to cut through.

He takes the knife from me and sets it on the coffee table. Then he gathers me in his arms. “Jack is so proud of you, Jilly girl.”

As my adrenaline plummets, I start to shake. “I-I did good, right?”

He takes off his mask and nudges me back against the coffee table, forcing me to sit down on it. “You were magnificent. My beautiful angel of death. You deserve a reward. Lay back.”

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