Page 35 of The Last Feast
Erik steps forward as he calmly closes the door behind him. “Put her down, Auguste.” He walks to the control panel hidden in a cupboard beside the fridge and engages the auto locks to prevent anyone from leaving until the handlers arrive.
“You’re a pedophile,” Auguste spits, ignoring the confusion on Hana’s pale face.
She doesn’t know why he would lie about his name unless he was tricking her. But then again, his behavior doesn’t match the deceit. He’s been open with her, he helped her, and he’s angry on her behalf as he continues cursing at his father.
“You lied to her. You told her you’re her uncle so you could abuse her. Is that why you’ve always belittled my childhood? Because you’re the exact same?”
“I am not a homosexual.” His father rears back, showing his ignorance.
Auguste gently sets Hana on the sofa then blocks her view as he scoffs, “Your preference is about age, not gender.Thatis the only sick thing. If you were truly religious, wouldn’t that condemn your soul to hell?” He takes a step forward while Hana watches them, unsure of what’s happening. “Wasn’t it enough that your own child paid for your sins? Or was it a code of secrecy amongst perverts? A quid pro quo? You sold your child’s innocence to steal a childhood you weren’t fucking entitled to?”
All the rage radiating off Auguste is another thing that doesn’t align with the man she met. Even when she was killing Odette, he wasn’t angry. He helped her in a clinical manner. Now, it’s emotion fueling him as he grabs Erik’s throat so tightly, the older man is up on his toes. Erik attempts to punch out, but it doesn’t hurt now Auguste has seen his parents for what they truly are and he’s finally accepted that they’ll never heal what they broke.
Sitting up on her knees, Hana rests her chin on the back of the sofa, watching with rapt fascination as Auguste unleashes his pent-up rage. All apathy has been lost since Erik defiled the only person he cares about.
The pain of his childhood mixes with the knowledge that he couldn’t protect another child. It’s the one thing he always felt guilty about, this thought that other children were being hurt because he couldn’t convince the adults in his life to act on the information they were given. The burden of justice shouldn’t be on a child’s shoulders.
Erik chokes as Auguste tightens his hand around his throat, dragging him to the cutlery drawer. Metallic clanging echoes around the room as he roughly pulls it open, retrieves a carving knife, and pulls his father up to meet his eyes.
“I’ll show you what you should’ve done that day,” he says before pushing the ten-inch blade into Erik’s crotch. The screams vibrate through his palm, but he twists, elongating the sounds as he repeats, “Don’t cry over spilt milk.”
Hana crawls over the sofa, eager to be involved in the carnage. She’s nearly skipping as she walks around them, missing the blood pooling beneath Erik’s feet. Taking out the two-pronged fork Martha would hit her with, she orders, “Put him on the table.”
Auguste continues twisting the knife as he drags his father to the large oak table before he throws him on top of it, the knife still lodged in his groin. The cream table runner soaks up the blood between the old man’s legs, but it doesn’t deter his son as he punches him in the face.
The twine that would be used for Christmas presents sits unused on the bookcase alongside a reel of red velvet ribbon. Auguste feels inspired by the upcoming holidays, so he ties Erik’s wrists to the thick wooden legs and then does the same to his ankles while Hana chooses her instruments.
She rolls up her sleeves before dropping to her knees to pull a toolbox out of the closet beside the bookcase, then a small canister of gas from the back of the storage closet. She rests the knives, meat fork, and a lighter on the top of the large navy box before pulling it to the table. Auguste watches her with open love, so much so that Erik can see it.
“Pathetic,” he slurs as he fights to remain conscious.
With the hard point of his elbow, Auguste drives down into his father’s face without breaking his eyes from Hana. She’s wearing his clothes, wrapped in him, and the blood staining the front of the grey hoodie doesn’t detract from the visual.
Hana stands at the end of the table by Erik’s feet then pulls his shoes off to remove his socks. She balls them up, throwing them at her smiling assistant. “Put them in his mouth.”
Erik is dazed from the blood loss and repeated blows, but he attempts to evade being gagged as he twists his head. Auguste pushes on the knife handle, changing its depth, searing his flesh so he screams out in pain, then quickly mutes it with the socks. He can’t help his laugh as he wraps the red velvet ribbon around his father’s face and ties a bow to stop the socks from being spat out.
Hana cuts up Erik’s pant legs, making Auguste harden. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see,” she says. “I’ve never seen one cut open before.”
Covering her hand with his, he grits, “Rules. First: you will never see a naked man again unless it’s me. Do you understand?”
“But I want to see it,” she whines, attempting to twist her hand out from under his. “You like it too.”
“Not fucking happening. Kill him, torture him, but there’s a tomorrow now, so this is how it’s going to be.”
She likes the thought of there being a tomorrow and a next day and a next day, on an infinite loop where they’re together until the end of time. She won’t have to hide from him when he’s still asleep, and she’ll be able to hear his deep voice, taste cake as soon as he wakes up.
Though it’s not enough to entirely change her mind as she looks up at him, silently demanding he let her do it, but Auguste leans over her until there’s half an inch between their face, and authority fills his him as he says low in his throat, “I belong to you, Hana. You made me a worshipper of you and only you, so I’m praying my God will show me this mercy.”
Abandoning her curiosity about what a mangled dick looks like, she selects a new knife and walks around the table. Auguste fits himself at her back like a guard as he holds her hips. Dipping his head, he kisses her neck then lays his cheek on her shoulder as she cuts Erik’s shirt away.
“I’ve never done this with a human before,” Hana says absentmindedly as she traces a line in the middle of his chest.
“Here, baby.” Auguste holds her wrist to guide the knife lower to Erik’s stomach, where no bones will get in the way. “It’s easier to cut through.”
He doesn’t let go of her hand as they cut through Erik’s stomach in a long, clean line that his professor would be proud of. There’s more blood due to the subject being alive. In his struggle, it runs over Erik’s body, dripping onto the table, eventually reaching the floor. But it’s not deep enough to kill him—yet.
