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Then, I take a seat on one of the leather sofas and wait.
***
Manuel Santos comes to in the middle of his shrine room, stripped naked and tied to a sturdy wooden chair. When his eyes open, he appears confused, then rage takes over and he thrashes. At least he tries to thrash.
The tape is tight.
The gag in his mouth, even tighter, until I tug it down and smile. For over ten long years I’ve waited for this day, and now that it’s here, I’m going to make him suffer.
“Manuel Santos, it’s time for your confession,” I say as a wave of calm finally settles over me.
“Fuck you!” he spits in my face.
I give him no reaction as I swipe the saliva away with the back of my hand.
“Say her name.” Knife in hand, I use it to slice down Manuel’s torso from his collarbone to his navel.
“Say. Her. Name,” I say again.
He screams as a long, thin line of blood appears as I drag the tip of my blade along his fat wrinkled flesh.
Sweat beads across his forehead, and his chest heaves as I trace the blade around his groin.
“I should cut off your filthy cock,” I say, dragging the blade over his balls. “Castrate you like a fucking mutt. Would you like that, Manuel? I could feed it to you… shove it down your throat until you choke.”
Manuel’s eyes meet mine, in his there is nothing but pure hate. But that’s not good enough.
I want his fear.
“All this for a whore,” he says, clicking his tongue. “She begged for it, you know. Begged my men to fuck her raw. Cried like a little bitch afterwards too. Bleeding from every hole…” He closes his eyes and inhales deep and long. “Then I had my turn with her.”
Rage.
Rage like nothing I’ve ever known consumes my every cell. It takes more strength than I thought I possessed not to rise to his bait. I want to shove my knife through his heart and end his vile life, but I can’t—I won’t.
Manuel Santos will suffer.
He will beg me to spare him, to have mercy.
And I won’t settle for anything less.
“Sara…” I repeat her name again. “Sara.”
“You think I’m afraid of you?” he laughs.
I raise my fist, the hilt of my blade tight in my hand as I bring it down hard into his thigh.
He lets out a shout of pain and struggles against his binds “Fuck! Fuck you, fuck you…” he chants.
I twist the blade, watching in morbid fascination as blood pools around the wound, runs down the side of his thigh, and drips onto the floor. The fact that he’s not screaming has me taking his torture one step further.
I shift the knife until the tip of the blade slides under his flesh. Slowly, I glide the knife along, peeling the top layer of flesh from his thigh to expose the raw muscle beneath.
Finally, Manuel Santos screams.
As I continue peeling the flesh away, I cut it into smaller pieces. I hold up a fatty, bloody piece of flesh and wave it in Santos’ face. “Finally getting my pound of flesh.”
He turns away, eyes squeezed shut before he glares up at me. “FUCK YOU!” Santos rages. “You’ll nev—”
