Page 119 of Cursed
Mercer stirs in the chair I’ve bolted to the floor, the zip ties cutting into his wrists as he regains consciousness.
“What the fuck?” His eyes dart wildly around the space before landing on me. “Who are you?”
I smile, arranging my tools on the steel table beside him. Scalpels. Pliers. A blowtorch. Things I’ve used before, but never with such personal investment.
“You don’t know me,” I say, selecting a scalpel. “But I know everything about you, Thomas.”
“I don’t understand?—”
“Sadie Reynolds,” I interrupt. “Remember her?”
The slight widening of his eyes tells me everything. He remembers. Of course he does. Predators never forget their prey.
“That was years ago,” he stammers. “A misunderstanding?—”
The first cut silences him. Just a shallow line across his cheek. A warning.
“The police report says you held her down. That she said no. Repeatedly.” I make another incision, parallel to the first. “There’s no misunderstanding, Thomas. I’m going to help you remember that.”
His screams when I apply the blowtorch to the fresh cuts are satisfying, but only the beginning. I’ve planned this meticulously. Every cut. Every burn. Every broken bone will mirror the internal pain he caused her.
“Please,” he begs. ”I’ll do anything?—”
“Anything?” I lean closer. “Did you stop when she said the same thing?”
I use the scalpel to slice through the zip ties holding his wrists behind his back and then pick up the pliers next, admiring how they catch the overhead light.
“Let me show you what happens to men who hurt people important to me.”
I run my thumb over the textured grip of the pliers, savoring Mercer’s terror.
“You know what’s fascinating about hands?” I ask, circling behind him. “They’re instruments of both creation and destruction. Yours harmed something precious.”
I grab his right hand, splaying his fingers against the arm of the chair. His pinky finger looks so fragile, so breakable. I position the pliers at the base of the digit.
“When you touched her, you took a piece of her. Now I’ll take everything from you.”
I clamp the pliers around his finger, not at the joint but midway between knuckles, and squeeze. The crunch of bone is satisfying, like stepping on autumn leaves. His scream echoesthrough the warehouse, bouncing back to create a symphony of agony.
“That’s one,” I say, releasing the crushed finger only to reposition the pliers on his ring finger. “Four more on this hand.”
The second snap is louder and somehow wetter. Blood bubbles around the metal as bone fragments pierce skin. Mercer’s body shakes violently against his restraints, head thrown back in a wordless howl.
“Did you stop when she begged?” I taunt. “No? Then why should I?”
The middle finger requires more pressure. I squeeze harder, feeling the resistance of bone against metal before it finally gives. Fragments pierce through skin, creating a grotesque origami of flesh and bone.
“Three,” I count, moving to his index finger.
His pleading has dissolved into incoherent sobbing. Sweat and tears create rivulets down his face, mixing with the blood from the cuts on his cheek. I position the pliers and apply steady pressure until this finger, too, collapses under the force.
“Last one on this hand,” I murmur, shifting the pliers to his thumb. “Then we start on the left.”
The thumb makes a satisfying crack as it collapses. Mercer’s screams have grown hoarse, his voice failing as his pain threshold stretches beyond human limits.
I don’t feel guilt or righteousness as I work. This isn’t about justice or making the world better. I’m not deluded enough to think I’m some avenging angel. This is simply what happens when someone hurts someone I care for.
“You know, Thomas,” I say conversationally as I move to his left hand, “I’m not doing this because I think you deserve punishment. Morality is a construct that’s never interested me.”
