Page 92 of Nemesync
“Good to know. Keep an eye on her.”
“Of course. Just remember, if you need help dealing with this asshole, I’m here.”
My gaze bore into the man before me, his trembling and shaking betrayed the fear he felt. I put my phone back in my pocket to give Alonzo all my attention.
Let’s start the festivities.
“Missed me, Alonzo?”
I crouched down, meeting him eye to eye.
His swollen eyelid makes me want to give him that purplish color on every damn part of his body.
With my knife, I gently lift his lowered head, to look at him while killing him slowly.
Such a pleasant activity.
This is going to be enjoyable, and I trust it’ll send a clear message to anyone contemplating meddling with what’s rightfully mine – my response will only get more violent each time.
Alonzo screamed in pain, “No, no, LISTEN!!!! I didn’t do anything to her.”
A dark chuckle echoes in the smelly old room. “Oh, if you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, big man. I would’ve opened your fucking body and let everything inside you slip out slowly and agonizingly.”
A sparkle of hope ignited in his eyes, so I continued, “You’re still going to die. I have to send a message with what will remain of your miserable corpse. I don’t understand. Maybe my reputation isn’t what it used to be. Maybe I need to be more creative and brutal in my killing. Don’t you think so?”
Alonzo begged for mercy, but he was just irritating the shit out of me by speaking. I looked at him, thinking about the best way to leave a mark that says a lot about my priorities now. Zanae Dellé.
“I think I know. You don’t have a tattoo on your forehead, that’s good. I hope you’re not sensitive, though. I took this when I came for you,” I revealed a tattoo gun. “If I’m being honest, I never tattooed anyone’s forehead. You’ll be my first, how exciting?” I said, patting his head, like the dog he was. I felt sorry for the dogs to be compared to this abomination.
Holding him in place, I alternated between tattooing his forehead and slicing him open in random places around his face, eyes, and tongue, anything I could reach to slowly make him lose every fucking drop of blood he has in him.
He abused her mentally, abused other women.
Blood. Bruises. Death.
10.
Not this again.
He was dying, and it was so satisfying to see him take his last breaths. “Oh, and don’t worry about hell, Alonzo. I’m going to get your friends to join you sooner than you think. You could have fun there. Fucking rapist.”
The quote ‘Zanae Dellé is mine. -The Devil.’ marked on his skin, his pale, lifeless corpse lying in a pool of blood, and the gratification it brought me to see that felt divine.
Seeing him like this overshadows the memories I’m trying to erase. I need to remember this image—only this one. No long blond hair, no familiar face, notrauma.
Anything to protect and claim what’s mine.
My shirt was bloody, I was sweating but so pleased by my work that I took a picture and sent it to Nikolai and he called me immediately after.
“You’re a sick fucker do you know that?”
“You must be sometimes.”
“Elijah, never in a lifetime I’ll let you tattoo my face, it was ugly as shit,” he added.
With a small laugh, I replied, “I would never tattoo your fat forehead. How is she?”
“She’s feeling a lot better after eating everything in your house,” he whispered, “Come back Eli, she’s looking for you.”
