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“Speak his crimes to him,” Sam said in the same monotone voice he always used.
My head shook as I pressed myself into the wall. On the wall, the window I’d been looking through reflected my own terrified visage back at me. A one way mirror? Control wasn’t something in my list of abilities at the moment. It was like I was trying to push through the wall to get away from the man in front of me. My cuff buzzed, and I gritted my teeth against the pain, still shaking my head. The next buzz was more intense, a burning shock that stopped my breath and brought a hiss of pain.
“He raped me,” I cried. The shame and agony of those words were still salt rubbed into raw wounds, even after all these years.
Branson shook his hooded head. “Ain’t never raped nobody. It’s only rape when they don’t want it. Everybody knows that.”
With those sentences, all of my fear, self-loathing, and humiliation evaporated and was replaced instantly with rage, a boiling cauldron of hatred and anger that was ready to burst from my body. I was a grenade ready to explode.
“You never raped anyone?” I hissed as I stepped toward him, knees shaking so hard I almost stumbled. “Did I hear that right?”
The hood bobbed up and down. “Y’all got the wrong guy.”
Furious tears were already starting to slide down my cheeks as I took the final step. I could smell the sharp reek of ammonia over the pine now. He’d been tied up there long enough to piss himself. Instead of gagging, it made me even angrier. Disgusting slob.
I jammed a finger into my chest. “I’m Dahlia Belrose, you sick fuck. You raped me dozens of times. The first time you did it I was five years old. Five, you son of a bitch,” I screamed, spit flying from my lips. “Do you remember me now?”
There was a pause as he froze, moving only enough to give a small nod of his head. “I remember the name Belrose. Them meth heads down in the Clydeville trailer park? Was you the older girl or the younger one?”
My hand lashed out before I even knew what I was going to do. I didn’t slap him. I punched him in the center of his face as hard as I could. The nose beneath the hood cracked and snapped under my knuckles. Branson rolled his head around and howled in pain, his voice muffled by blood. He would’ve fallen over had he not been tied to the chair that was bolted to the floor.
“Don’t you talk about my little sister, you piece of shit.”
Bong. “Dahlia, as your first task in my Dollhouse, I want you to give Branson a small taste of what he did to you. On a table by the wall, you’ll find a pair of scissors. I want you to cut his clothes off. Not unlike the way he tore yours off as a child.”
Anger vibrated through me. I’d never experienced anything like it. Adrenaline and excitement swirled within me. The instructions Sam gave me were actually a little deflating. Drake had said people were tortured here, and maybe even killed.
My wrath and fury at seeing the monster in front of me had done something I’d never thought possible. It had given me strength. I wanted to torture this man. I wanted to watch his blood flow down into the grate below his chair. Puddle on the concrete below.
“I want to hurt him,” I said through gritted teeth.
“In due time,” Sam said. “For today, we only want fear. It is a delicate and beautiful art. You must learn to crawl before you learn to run. Please, pick up the scissors.”
Huffing, I stomped to the small table and grabbed the scissors. These weren’t the cheap plastic and metal scissors from an office supply store. They were massive and heavy with blades that had to be a good nine inches long. The entire thing was metal with a rubber coating on the grips and looked wickedly sharp, too. They reminded me of tailor’s shears I’d seen in a movie once.
What would Sam do if I walked over and plunged them into his chest? A single, terrified voice at the back of my head begged me not to. My self-preservation instinct was still intact, enough to keep me inside the lines.
I walked back to Branson. Sam had said I needed to cut the clothes off, but it didn’t say I couldn’t have fun while doing it.
I snapped the blades open and closed in front of his face.
Branson jerked back, blood dripping from his hood down onto his chest.
“Stop that.” He gasped for air under the cloth. “You need to quit before this goes too far.”
“Too far?” I growled and grabbed a handful of his shirt to yank him as far forward as I could. “Too far, like shoving your cock into a child? Is that too far for you?”
Jamming the scissors down the neck of his shirt, I cut down the middle, then pulled and tugged violently, tearing the rest off his body. I pulled so hard the fabric friction burned and tore his skin, leaving angry red lines around his neck and armpits. He heaved and snorted as he thrashed his head, trying to get the hood to fall off.
Digging the tips of the scissors into his waistband, I snapped the blades together again, over and over. My lips peeled back into a snarl as I worked. Twice, I nipped the skin of his leg. Branson let out a yelp each time, and my snarl turned into a smile.
As I worked, I realized something profound. For the first time in my life, ever, I had the power. I was in charge of something. This man was at my mercy.
It. Was. Intoxicating. If I hadn’t been so drunk from the sensation, I would’ve been terrified by my feelings.
Finally, all that was left was his underwear, a pair of revolting, stained-white briefs. I slid the blade under the elastic band and let the cold metal tip nudge the bulge of his cock and balls.
I heard it then. The whimper. Branson whimpered and flinched away.
