Page 24 of Buried in Blood
She’s barely conscious—drugged just enough to stay upright, but not enough to spare her from the pain.
I’m not merciful. I’m not a fucking saint.
I’m Midas.
They throw her onto the slab. Her body hits it with a dullthud. She lets out a weak groan. Blonde hair, broken nails, a bruised mouth. Pretty, in a fragile, worthless way. Her wrists are bound with barbed wire—a touch of my personal flair. I like when they bleed while they pray.
One of the cloaked followers hands me the torch. The flames scream as if they were a living thing. I raise it into the black sky.
She turns her head and meets my eyes. Her lips tremble. She doesn’t beg. I respect that. But that won’t save her. Nothing will.
“This soul has been weighed,” I say, my voice carrying over the crackling flames.
“This soul has been found unworthy.”
The crowd responds in unison:
“Cleanse her.”
I light the straw beneath the slab.
Itcatches instantly, roaring upward like Hell itself opened its mouth.
She screams.
Oh, fuck. That scream. It’s music. It’s agony turned into art.
Her legs kick. Her back arches.
The flames crawl up her thighs, melting her skin like wax.
Her blonde hair sizzles, curling into blackened threads that stick to her face.
I watch her eyes melt, her mouth opening wider and wider as her voice turns to a guttural gargle.
She tries to roll off.
She won’t.
The wire tears into her wrists with every movement, shredding her open like meat through a grinder.
She’s still alive when the fire reaches her chest.
That’s what I like about a slow burn. It teaches them something.
Teaches me something.
I take a breath and feel it—the moment her soul rips free. You can feel it if you know what to look for. The tension in the air breaks. The flames shift.
Silence.
Only fire remains. And ash. I turn to my people. No one moves.
They are mine. They are faithful. They are afraid.
Good.
I nod once. “Cleansing complete.”
