Page 15 of Seven+Four

“I am not who you think I am. You got the wrong…person.”Still going on with this crap?

I use the tip of the blade to scoop up a drop of blood rolling down his cheek. He gasps into the silence.

“Are you saying I’m so stupid I got the wrong scumbag?”

He opens and closes his mouth, for lack of words, I presume. Moron.

“Human life equals shit to me just like it does to you. We can both kill with no problem. I don’t give a fuck who you are, just like you didn’t about your victims. The fact that you think you’re immune, it’s baffling.” I’ll never really understand people’s mindsets.

“Victims? I didn’t… Ahhhh!”

Another deep cut on the left cheek this time makes him cry out.

I know he’s lying. I would even if I hadn’t read his file. I’m a very good lie detector. Most people signal dishonesty with a twitch of their eye, gritted teeth, a balled-up fist, parted lips. He shows nothing because there’s no conflict inside him. Usually that’s the mark of what shrinks like to call a psychopath or a sociopath.

His eyes are closing once again, so I smack him with renewed force, leaving him grinding his teeth.

“How does it feel to be the victim? To simply have to take the pain?” I whisper darkly, while cleaning the blade with alcohol before pocketing it.

His chest heaves as he coughs up blood. It froths at the corners of his mouth with every breath. Then he smiles at me, gums painted bright red. The pretense is off finally. It took him a while—I check the time on my phone—one hour and seven minutes, hardly a record.

“What pain?” His laugh is interrupted by more coughing.

I quickly grab one of Gabe’s throwing knives from the table and pierce his neck on the right side. The squishy sound when it spears the skin gives me goose bumps.

“Don’t struggle,” I tell him as he finds the last of his fighting spirit while uselessly twisting on the chair. “Your trachea is severed; blood is filling your lungs. You’re drowning in it. Your brain is being deprived of oxygen and your nervous system’s quickly shutting down. Your sight has turned blurry, but you can still hear me.” I study him for a moment as he registers my words. “I’ll let you go with a pearl of wisdom. People don’t understand pain. They have no concept beyond their worst experience.” While I have been to hell and back. There’s no pain I cannot endure.

“I stubbed my toe the other day, does that count?” Raph’s idiotic statement reaches my ears through the intercom on the door. When I turn around, he’s standing behind the glass wall near his husband.

“Your donor is convulsing.”

“It happens when the show is over.” I remove the throwing knife from the donor’s neck, and after a couple of seconds, he stops moving.

“Did you use one of Gabe’s knives? He’s not going to like that,” Michael says.

I shrug, like I’m afraid of that fucker or his barking alter.

“I brought you a treat.” Michael has a plate and a container in each hand holding some kind of food that looks like inedible eggs and DOA pancakes. I look at Raph, but he’s staring at his phone. Michael is the worst cook in the universe, and my brother—one of the most gruesome killers in Chicago—can’t stop him from continuing to try.

“What’s that?” I point at the blob-looking thing inside the container.

“It’s bread made from scratch. I shaped it like a heart.” He’s smiling with excitement.A shattered heart?

“It’s green; is that mold?” I frown at it. “Is it a mangled iguana carcass? Or maybe something that once was food. I’m a restaurant owner; I can’t be in the same room with that thing.”

“Why do you all have to insult me like this while I pour all my love into baking?” He drops the plates on the floor, scattering pieces of…food and ceramic everywhere.

“Babe, c’mere.” Raph yanks him against his chest and then glares at me. I glare back. Fucking drama queens.

“I have a three-Michelin-star chef waiting to teach him how to cook, but he refused,” I remind him—actually the rest of the family begged me to do it.

“No, I didn’t. I told you I will if you have lunch with me once a week like we used to,” Michael replies with a glower. He’s asking me a favor in exchange for another favor?

When Raph got together with Michael, I went to see what all the fuss was about. I discovered we both like detective stories and food, so I started bringing him lunch during his work breaks. I did it mainly to fuck with Raph, but I kind of found him not so annoying after a while. But he started bringing those repellant dishes he cooked.. Plus, Raph doesn’t leave him alone for long.

“I’m busy,” I deadpan. “Tell me about that bird legend.” Michael’s knowledge of torture methods is quite ample.

“You mean the blood eagle?” He turns his head toward me, his cheek still on Raph’s chest. “It comes from Nordic legends of Viking executions. The condemned’s back was slashed to give access to the ribs, which were then broken and twisted upward to look like wings.”

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