Page 3 of One
“Right or left?” Gabe asks in his monotone voice, coming on my other side. He’s tapping speedily on his phone.
“Does it matter?” I interject.
“Huh. I guess not,” he replies without looking up. “Ten on the pinky.” He slides his phone into his side pocket and pulls on the lapels of his dark-grey tailored suit. The color matches his steel eyes perfectly.
“If Rague goes for the fingers, he’ll cut the thumb,” I observe.
“Maximum damage.” Gabe hums.
I nod. “Ten on the eye. He’ll go for disfiguration.”
“Good one,” Rami says, taking a drink from his plastic to go cup with the ‘Might be water, might be Tequila’label. The gloves on his hands are black today, and his reddish beard is getting so long I can barely see his lips.
“Was the green plastic with tiny white dots really necessary?” Gabe raises an eyebrow at Rami. I look at the bright material covering the floor and walls of the FUNS room. This last time was Rami’s turn to restock the supplies, and he likes to be…creative. Huge bonus in his book if he can piss some of us off.
“What? I read online that this shade of green promotes calmness and encourages mental health and concentration. Good for Hulky over there.” He points at where Rague is panting furiously. “Plus, it freaks out the donors.” Like the one currently in the chair who is nervously glancing around.
“Black soothes me,” I say.
“Okay. So, next time I’ll go for something more…Addams Family-sh.” He smirks at me.
Rague’s angry rumble booms through the intercom, and then he goes and chops off the whole hand. None of us flinch at the gory sight. Or the high pitch of the donor’s scream. My eyes are zeroed on the blood dripping from the stump. Dark red, thick, and silky. What a beauty.
Rami whistles. The guy in the chair pathetically whimpers, and I tune out the ensuing screams and begging. Because it’s annoying.
“Unpredictable bastard,” I grumble. Among the six of us, Rague is the mercurial one. At times even a loose cannon. Not for the first time, I wonder how I’m the only psychopath in the group.
“Money, please.” Gabe waits with his palm up, his Rolex peeking out from the cuff of his suit.
“The fuck?” I mutter.
“You said finger, bro,” Rami reminds him.
“I was the closest.” Gabe gives both of us a “duh” look.
Rami pulls out his wallet and slaps a green banknote in Gabe’s open hand. I, on the other hand, give him the finger.
“Who’s the donor anyway?” Gabe asks, not sounding curious at all. His usual flat voice is the reason Rami calls him C-3PO.
“Charles Berson,” Rami replies, baring his teeth. “Indolent social worker by day, child abuser by night.”
Now I know why Rague got especially gruesome withthisdonor. He’s ruthless with all his donors—or should I call them predators?—disguised as exemplary citizens. But he’s fucking brutal to anyone who hurts children.
I don’t have an overwhelming compulsion to kill. I don’t fantasize about mutilated corpses and sharing acharcuterie boardwith Hannibal the Cannibal. But when my bloodthirsty need hits, I like to use different methods to satisfy it, while still following the family code. When someone’s own darkness taints others, they need to be expunged. Eradicated from earth. The fact that I feed my own bottomless, bloody need while doing it certainly makes it more enjoyable. And easier, thanks to my lack of remorse and empathy. I find people with a full range of emotions…limited.
“Shut up!” Rague growls, making the donor shiver. “Arrogant prick only when beating kids.”
I can hear him clearly now, since he turned to the narrow, steel table facing us. He nods at us without looking up, too focused on his task. Gotta respect that.
“Please, you got the wrong pe-person,” the donor pleads again.
“Did you stop when little Annabel Davis begged you? Or Peter Harris? Or Jake and Mary Lewis?” Rague snarls. “Did you even know their names when you used that steel pipe on them? Or were they just sandbags to you?”
Rague’s hand slowly waves, fingers flying on the various tools lining the tray. He stops, hovering over an axe. I feel the smirk on my face. That’s my favorite. Blood splashing and gushing. Messy, but satisfying. Fuck, the half-chub inside my pants is not a surprise. And I don’t do anything to hide it. Don’t need to in front of my brothers.
Each one of us has what the society we live in would call “odd tastes.” But being experimented on for years while we were still kids by shithead scientists left some consequences. That’s why we started this family side business together: to focus our preferences and skills into something…productive.
Rague’s fingers finally curl around a toothed handsaw. Not my first choice. Not my last, either.
