Page 109 of Rampage

Surprise flickers across Frank's face before his sneer returns. "Playing house with damaged goods. How noble."

I approach him slowly, the syringe held casually between my fingers. "You know what's fascinating about the human body, Frank? Its resilience. Its capacity to heal." I circle behind him, my voice dropping lower. "But also, how quickly it can be… altered."

Before he can respond, I plunge the needle into his neck with practiced precision. He jerks against the restraints, a startled sound escaping his lips before his muscles begin to slacken.

"What… what did you—" His words slur as the paralytic takes effect.

"Just something to keep you compliant," I explain, checking his pupils as they dilate. "Don't worry. You'll be fully conscious. I want you to experience everything."

Fear replaces the contempt in his eyes as understanding dawns. I return to my bag, removing a tray and surgical tools with deliberate care—scalpels, forceps, retractors. Each instrument I place on the metal tray produces a sharp sound that makes Frank flinch.

"You took everything from her," I say, selecting a scalpel. "Her voice. Her power. Her sense of safety." I move behind him again, tilting his head back against the chair. "Today, I'm going to teach you what that feels like."

His eyes widen in panic as I position the scalpel near his throat, but the paralytic has rendered him helpless. Only small, strangled sounds escape as I make the first precise incision.

"This won't kill you," I assure him, my hands steady as I work. "I'm a doctor, after all. I know exactly how much damage the human body can sustain without shutting down."

Blood wells from the incision as I locate his vocal cords. I sever the delicate tissue, ensuring he'll never form words again. His muffled screams come out as wet, gurgling sounds that gradually fade to silence.

"There," I murmur, examining my handiwork with clinical detachment. "Now you won't be able to manipulate anyone with your words again."

Frank's eyes bulge with terror, his mouth working soundlessly as he tries to scream. The betrayal of his own body—this sudden, irrevocable silence—reflects perfectly in his panicked gaze.

"Lily described how you'd cover her mouth when she cried out," I continue conversationally, selecting a different instrument from my tray. "How you told her no one would hear her, no one would believe her."

I move to stand directly in front of him now, allowing him to see the specialized tool in my hand—a spoon-shaped instrument with hard ridges on the sides.

"The eyes are fascinating organs," I explain, my voice taking on the educational tone I use with medical students. "So complex, yet so vulnerable."

Frank thrashes weakly against his restraints, the paralytic limiting his movements to pathetic twitches. Tears stream down his face, the first genuine bit of emotion I've ever seen from him.

"You watched her suffer," I whisper, leaning close. "You enjoyed seeing her fear. Now you'll never watch anything again."

The procedure is methodical. I've studied it carefully, ensuring he'll survive but never recover. Each extraction is precise, designed to maximize his terror while preventing him from losing consciousness. His silenced agony fills the small room like a physical presence as I take first one eye, then the other.

"Almost done," I tell him, though he can no longer see me. I select a thin, specialized drill from my bag. "Just one final lesson."

I position the instrument beside his ear canal. "You never listened to her pleas," I say softly. "You ignored every woman who begged you to stop. So, this seems fitting."

The high-pitched whir of the drill is the last sound Frank Dawson will ever hear. I destroy his auditory pathways, ensuring the damage is permanent, irreversible.

When I finish, I step back to survey my work. Frank sits slumped in the chair, blood trailing from his ruined eyes, ears, and throat. The paralytic will wear off eventually, leaving him trapped in a prison far more confining than these concrete walls—a prison of darkness and silence, unable to communicate his suffering to anyone.

I clean my instruments methodically, returning each to my bag. My hands don't shake; my breathing remains steady. This isn't rage driving my actions—it's justice, cold and calculated.

"Forty years," I tell him, though he can't hear me. "That's how long the average man lives in prison sentenced to life. Forty years of darkness. Forty years of silence. Forty years of knowing you're completely powerless."

I pack the last of my tools and pull off my gloves, dropping them into a small plastic bag that will be incinerated later. There will be no evidence, no trail leading back to me. The prison doctors will find him as if he's just another unfortunate inmate succumbing to violence.

Office Reynolds appears at the door, right on schedule. "Time's up, Doctor. Did you complete your medical assessment?"

"Yes, everything's been documented," I reply, gesturing toward Frank's slumped form. "He had an adverse reaction to the examination. You might want to call for medical assistance."

Reynolds's eyes widen slightly at the sight, but he nods. Years in the prison system have taught him when to ask questions and when to look the other way. "I'll handle it. You should go now."

I shoulder my bag and walk through the doorway without a backward glance. Frank Dawson is still breathing, still alive, but he'll never threaten another woman again. The thought brings a cold satisfaction to me as I follow Office Reynolds through the labyrinth of corridors.

The administrative process to exit the prison feels surreal in its mundanity—signing out, retrieving my personal effects, nodding to the guards who have no idea what just occurred in Exam Room 3. My medical credentials and confident demeanor shield me from suspicion as I walk through the final security checkpoint.

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