Reader discretion advised.
*PLEASE NOTE: This is a short horror story containing violence, explicit language, and torture.
“I want to know what you’re thinking.”
I held her hand in mind like a lover might, stroking each of her soft fingers between mine. She trembled under my touch.
“Please, tell me what you’re thinking.”
Her blue eyes shined with tears.
“I want to know you,” I whispered.
When she didn’t speak, I gripped her index finger and yanked it back. The bone cracked and she screamed.
Heart hammering, I moved to her middle finger, shushing her as her sobs subsided.
“You need to be better at communicating,” I said, my words hasty now. “You talk, and I’ll listen. All I want is to listen.”
“Fuck you,” she spat and sobbed again.
I brought the finger to my mouth and kissed it gently. Then I twisted, eliciting a sweet, popping chorus.
Her scream came out as a coughing gasp, choking her words.
“What was that, dear? I didn’t hear you.”
“G-go to hell.”
She sweated, but it was a cold sweat in the damp, stony basement. The walls practically dripped with moisture from the week-long rain. I loved the rain. It smelled so sweet. It didn’t smell as sweet as she did.
I bent and lay my tongue against her temple, dragging it up her brow to taste the salt and blood. I smacked my lips and dipped a finger into her dewing tears. “You don’t need to be afraid, my darling. I don’t want to do this.”
At her silence, I shifted to the next finger. The ring finger. Slowly, I wiggled that thin band free and lay it over her chest. She gave a panicked wheeze as I took the unburdened finger in my hand. “He couldn’t give you what I can give you.” At that, her white-stricken eyes shifted to look over the table she was strapped to, to the bloody mess in the corner. Hardly any limbs to distinguish. “He couldn’t protect you. But I can protect you.”
She blubbered something too quiet for me to hear. I moved my ear to her lips.
“What did you say?”
“I s-said,” she hissed, her breath hot and minty against my cheek, “you’re a ps-psychopath.”
She lashed out, then, like a viper, hissing and spitting with teeth all bared. She tried to snap at me but the hound was leashed and I was faster. I danced back as she gnashed at the air.
I smiled, then; stepped forward. I took her hand, with the two broken fingers. I snapped it back in one clean motion.
Tiny twig bones splintered all at once like a foot fallen on crisp autumn leaves.
Ignoring her agonised screams, I walked around the table and took her other hand. The pinkie first, this time. I stuck the tip of it in my mouth–just a quick taste–then held it up where she could see it.
“Let’s try this again, my love.” This time, I reached for the knife. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”