Page 90 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

I took the long-nosed pliers and clamped down on the base of his left index finger. The ribbed steel teeth bit into the flesh, locking tight against the root of the nail. He thrashed, the heavy wooden chair groaning against the iron bolts in the floor, his face purple, veins bulging like blue worms across his temples. I didn't rush. I pulled backward with a slow, mechanical leverage.

The nail didn't just pop off. It peeled.

A sharp, wet rasp echoed through the quiet as the living tissue tore away from the quick, exposing the raw, pink nerves beneath. Bill let out a choking, high-pitched shriek, his body going completely rigid, his feet drumming a frantic, desperate pattern against the concrete. A thick, dark stream of crimson pooled instantly on the zinc tray, dripping down into the iron drain with a steady, rhythmic pat... pat... pat.

"That's one," I murmured, tossing the bloody shell onto the tray with a sharp clink.

He was begging, his voice a broken, raspy whisper, his head rolling against the wooden backrest.

"Please... oh God, please... I didn't mean... they made me do it. Fuck I didn’t know they were that young they didn’t look like children. Every skinny body in there looks like that, please stop..."

The word children turned something cold and sharp in my gut.

"You fucking knew you bastard," I growled.

I didn't reach for the pliers this time. I picked up the heavy bone-handled wood chisel from the kit. The edge was razor-sharp, honed on the whetstone until it could slice through leather like butter. I took his thumb, forcing it flat against the metal table, and drove the flat of the blade directly into the first knuckle joint.

I didn't use a mallet. I used my weight. I leaned my shoulder into the handle, pushing downward until the steel met the resistance of the cartilage.

Crunch.

The sound was a sickening, wet pop as the joint severed completely. Bill’s eyes rolled back into his head, the whites showing fractured red capillaries under the flickering bulb. He didn't scream this time; his lungs simply collapsed under the sheer volume of the agony, a low, bubbling rattle escaping his lips as his hand began to spasm, the severed tip of his thumb twitching on the zinc surface.

I pulled the chisel back, the blade coated in a thick, grey paste of marrow and red cells.

"You used your hands to make us small, Bill," I whispered, my voice perfectly flat, perfectly clinical as I lined the steel up with the middle joint of his wrist.

"So, we're going to make sure your hands don't work anymore."

I brought the heavy iron hammer down next. The impact made a dull, heavy thunk as it flattened the metacarpal bones, the skin splitting open into wide, white-lipped starbursts that sprayed dark droplets across the concrete floor. He was shouting now—senseless, jagged noises, words losing their shape as the nervous system completely broke down under the trauma, his face wet with a mixture of tears, sweat, and the red spray from his own fingers.

I did it again.

And again.

Until the hand didn't look like a hand anymore. It looked like ground beef.

And then I started again with his other hand, the feet then eyes. I made him feel pain.

Again and.

Again and.

Again . . .

My fingers stopped after the final sentence, leaving the cursor blinking against the empty page.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Waiting for more but I had nothing left to give. They say the best stories are written by people who've lived them.

I call bullshit.

No one has ever flown beside dragons. No one has cast spells beneath an ancient moon. Fantasy has never needed permission from reality to make us believe.