Hell's torturer: The Demon in Disguise

Part 3

I don't feel anything. My mind takes a few moments to assimilate that I am laying in my empty bathtub, over a sheet of nylon. Every inch of my body is numb. I command my limbs to move, but they won't listen, as if someone has severed the connection between the brain and the muscle. I try to think back at how I got to this point, my mind struggling to scramble a coherent answer. That's until I lay my eyes upon the handsome devil coming through the door. He is carrying blue barrels labeled with some kind of chemical concoction. I don't understand what the letters mean, but something tells me it's bad news.

"Morning Sunshine," he smiles innocently, then looks at his watch. "Oh, would you look at the time? It seems like you won't be able to make it to that interview. What a shame. Don't worry, you wouldn't have e to think about such trivial things as work anymore."

"W-why can't move." I stammer.

"I used a local anesthetic to paralyze you from the neck down." He says keeping his voice casual. The fact that he's so nonchalant about it is truly bothersome, if not dreadful. "Any more questions or shall we begin?"

There is a feeling arising in me, telling me that I know where this is going, but yet again, a person like him can be unpredictable. I stare down at my body to find that I'm still in my underwear. I try to keep my voice calm, to not show him how unbearably terrified I am, but I'm not as good at this game as he is.

"Let me guess since I lied about being assaulted, you are going to do it to me for real to teach me a lesson?"

"I'm a murderer sweetie, not a rapist." He sits on a chair next to me. "To be fair it is a decent guess, but it wouldn't be a fitting punishment. Not the way I see it at least."

"You are going to torture me?"

"Not physically. Hence the anesthesia, I will put you through emotional pain, however. To give you a glimpse of what your victim felt before they took their own life."

He lifts a pair of gardening scissors, that's been sitting on the bathroom tiles and gently places my hand at the edge of the tub. I can't prevent my tears from falling, they drop down to my chest, leaving small black droplets, mixed with my mascara. Is there any point in me begging now? His expression as he cuts into my flesh remains that of complete indifference. I don't feel a thing but the visual is enough for my brain to conjure the sensation in the form of a phantom pain. I hear a snap as the blade cuts through the bone, leaving the tip of my bloody pinky in his white gloves.

A faint smile shines on his face as he raises it to the light so he can observe it. As if he was holding a souvenir, rather than a piece of my body.

"I hope you don't mind me keeping this as a memento of our encounter. You have such pretty, slender fingers. I knew from the moment I saw you, I had to make you mine." He cackles.

My eyes refuse to believe the sight, but it's there. My severed finger rests in his palm like a chopped-off carrot and that's barely even the beginning of my torture.

"I haven't done anything wrong! This is too much..."

"Oh, you haven't? I guess ruining someone's life and reputation doesn't count as anything wrong in your book, but what did I expect? It's typical for you to deny it even in your current circumstances. It's so much easier to blame someone else than to take accountability for your actions." He puts my pinky in a plastic bag, retrieves it in his pocket, and without further ado moves the scissors onto my ring finger. "Women like you drive me insane."

This time he snaps it quickly, without breaking eye contact. He's done this before. I can only imagine the collection of fingers he keeps in his drawer. How can I be so stupid to fall for his charm? These types of things happen only in books and movies. My life wasn't supposed to end like this, I had dreams, I had goals. I wanted to build a career and potentially have a family with the man of my dreams. We would go on trips and spend our days arguing about small things, laughing at stupid jokes, and watching horror movies where we could enjoy living through the thrills vicariously. Instead, I am lying in a bathtub, in my apartment, witnessing the man who I previously imagined having all these delightful experiences with, cut me like a pig, ready to be shipped off to the market.