Page 151 of The Night Shift
Now, one vial of midazolam, an epidural needle, and a couple of very precise nerve blocks later, he’s nothing but a meat sack waiting for disassembly.
He makes a noise. Some pathetic, garbled moan from the back of his throat. I lean forward and straighten my skirt.
What? This is a monumental moment for me. I needed to look good.
His bleary eyes blink open, finding me immediately, widening as recognition hits. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a wet, choked sound. I laugh. Like, really laugh.
It starts as a quiet chuckle, a bubbling thing deep in my chest, before erupting into a full-bodied, uncontrollable fit. My ribs ache, my eyes water, and I can’t stop. It’s too good. The absurdity of it. I can’t believe I was scared of this.Really, Holly? This?This piece-of-shit, little, tiny dick-licker, fucking asshole?
Funny how things are always scarier in your head. Nightmares swelling and twisting until they consume you. But then you face them, and reality is just underwhelming.
He keeps making that stupid throat noise. I rip a piece of cloth and shove it into his mouth, pressing it down hard enough that he gags. “It’s all right. I already know what you want to say.Oh my god, Holly, it’s you? It’s been so long! You look amazing!Blah, blah, blah.” I push the gag in, relishing the pained whimper that escapes his throat. “But sadly, flattery isn’t going to get you out of this.”
I open my little fanny pack, carefully unzipping it to reveal the various scalpels I’ll be needing for tonight’s intensive procedure. I pull out my favorite ten-blade.
The resultant panic on Nate’s face is beautiful. I see it in his eyes, in the quiver of his paralyzed limbs. The sheer, helpless terror.
My smile spreads as I drag the tip of the blade over the bare flesh of his fat, hairy thigh. Not pressing. Just scraping.
The femoral artery is an immediate death sentence, so I jam it in a few inches to the left. The blade sinks in with a wet, sucking sound. Dark red liquid splatters across my face, warm and metallic.
His body reacts instantly.
His eyes bulge, veins straining against his forehead as his mouth stretches open in a silent, agonized wail. He attempts to recoil, but his paralyzed limbs betray him.
I watch his skin part like overripe fruit.
Twist.
Thick rivulets of blood pool beneath him, soaking into the mattress. He convulses. His throat gurgles with choked-back sobs.
I leave the scalpel lodged in his thigh and take an eleven-blade out of my pouch. It’s smaller, triangular, and razor-sharp at the tip, perfect for slow, jagged incisions rather than a clean slice.
“You know, I’ve thought about this for so long,” I say, rolling it between my fingers, watching the edge catch the dim streetlight pouring in through the window. “I used to imagine how I’d do it. Where I’d cut you first. How it would feel to hear your screams. But this is better.”
He’s trying to speak. Trying to beg me to stop. Nothing comes out.
I yank down his boxers and — oh,god. You havegotto be fucking kidding me. “Seriously? You’rehard?”
Tears carve tracks down his cheeks. He tries to move again. The paralysis holds. My lip curls in disgust and I shake my head. “Whatever. Makes my job easier, I guess.”
I press the tip of the eleven-blade against the base of his dick, just enough for the jagged edge to pierce the thin, sensitive flesh. Blood wells instantly, a single, fat bead that swells and trickles down the side like an offering. He makes another stupid fucking sound, eyes latching onto mine, pleading and desperate.
I slap him hard. His head jerks to the side, saliva splattering from behind the gag.
“Don’t look atme,you vile piece of shit! Look at what I’m doing to you.”
He doesn’t. He’s gasping through the cloth in his mouth, tears spilling freely down his face.
I grab his jaw, nails biting into his skin, and jerk his head down. “Lookdown or else I’m going to shove a rod through your skull keeping your head upright, so you don’t have a fucking choice.”
A sudden jerk of my wrist sends a fresh crimson spurt splattering across my face like hot, wet paint. It’s like peeling open raw meat under a butcher’s knife. The deeper I go, the more resistance I meet.
Nate’s entire body convulses. His throat bulges as he tries to scream, but nothing. He looks like a dying animal.
“Yeah? Does it feel good?” I’ve never cut anyone’s penis off before. So I’m genuinely curious.
The steel carves deeper.
