Chapter Three
Austin
The hysterics were nice until her screams semi-damaged my eardrums. I expected her to fight and she almost disappointed me. She’s different than I thought she would be. The excitement I feel over terrorizing her is a surprise. I kill with cold dispassion. This is different, a methodical game of restraint not to kill that I’ve never experienced.
I step on the foot pedal and the Dragonfly fires up. I delight when her body goes rigid at the sound before I depress the pedal and the room is quiet again. The sound of her harsh breathing thunders through my veins and I swear our hearts sync.
Normally I would tell a person to relax. Not because I care, but because it’s what you do when someone’s in your chair—or bed as the case is now. I don’t want her to relax, though. I want this to fucking hurt. I want her to feel every fucking needle prick as I mutilate her lovely skin. I want to penetrate her skin further than I should and watch the colors bleed into her flesh. I want my ink to be as ugly as what they did to Cindy. I want the beauty of my art to be the most wicked thing ever created so her brother knows true fear. This piece will say I’m coming for him next.
With a slow steady, exhale, I place my gloved hand on the middle of her back and smile when she jerks. She needs to be still. Even the slightest wiggling can cause a blowout. It happens if the needle pierces the skin too deeply. No matter the smeared beauty of that pain, I don’t want that or at least try to tell myself so. It doesn’t stop the fact that I want to destroy her perfect flesh and leave my imprint in every pore.
Her head goes down, forehead against the top of the bed, so when she talks it’s muffled. “Don’t do this, please.”
I almost refuse to answer again because I know my silence drives her crazy and adds to her fear. Unfortunately, she needs the rules. “This won’t be finished tonight or tomorrow night. Depending on the design that takes shape, it could be weeks.” I don’t tell her I could have this done easily in a week. I won’t complete it quickly, though. I want her brother angry and frantic. That means I’m allotting only a small amount of time to work on her each day. “Begging and crying will lose you meals,” I continue dispassionately, “or the blanket. If the lack of those items don’t put you in line and your actions persist, I’ll administer drugs that will make you feel everything I do. The only difference is you’ll be unable to move at all even when I take breaks. I won’t repeat the rules and they’re non-negotiable.” My hand travels higher and I smooth her long hair off her back and run my fingers over the area between her shoulder blades. This is where I’m starting and I’ll allow the design to build from this center piece. I have a rough idea of what I want and I only ever ink freehand. The people who wear my art are connoisseurs and they get what they pay for. And they pay a lot. Her body will be my masterpiece and Fernandez will understand that I’m destroying everything he cares about—beginning with his sister. When every last person in his life is gone or branded with my mark, I’ll kill him. He’ll thank me when he’s on his knees. It still won’t matter, because I have no intention of making it quick.
Before I begin inking her lovely flesh, I admire the flawless canvas waiting for my art. She doesn’t carry an ounce of fat, she’s slim and lean, and I can see strength in her muscle tone. She works out and enjoys hot yoga, which I discovered when I was looking for information on her brother’s organization. She’s also in college working on an accounting degree. Commendable, I guess. Sucks that she’s attached to her shitbag brother. Sucks for her that I’m destroying her perfect skin. My lips quirk; I feel not one ounce of pity. Sometimes, for some people, life sucks, and right now this woman’s life sucks more.
If I’m honest, I admit I feel something. Excitement maybe? I know I’m not a good man but I’ve never thought of going to this extreme. Victor enjoyed reigning in the monster. I was his toy whom he kept on a tight leash. His death released me from those constraints. Maybe it would be kinder to kill her. If I were a kind man, I’d give it more than a second’s thought. No, little miss velvet skin’s brother is a vital part of my vengeance and I’ll be damned if a pretty face or beautiful flesh sway me.
To my delight, as I hesitate, more small quivers run across her flesh. And, because I’ve learned how strong she actually is, her fear excites me more than it should. The chair squeaks when I move it forward using my foot. I sink into the well-used black leather and roll just a bit closer.
The bed adjusts too and I have it at the desired height. I found the bed in Victor’s attic storage. I removed the thick mattress and replaced it with a vinyl covered pad, which I then covered with painter’s plastic and secured with every kidnapper’s favorite toy—Duct tape. Cindy’s mother used this bed in her final months of life. I didn’t know the woman; Victor kept me out of the wing she occupied, and I felt no remorse when she died. Not that this would have changed even if I did know her. There was a twinge of something when it came to Cindy’s personal heartbreak at the loss of her mother. At the time, it proved I might have a soul. Now, looking down at the woman I’m about to mutilate, I’m assured having a soul is far beyond me.
“This will hurt. Lie still,” I order.
Another round of trembling passes through her and I give her a moment to gain control. She finally sucks in a long breath and goes taut. The room is cold and she has goosebumps on her flesh. I grab a blanket from the low shelf where I’ve stored my supplies. I cover her from her hips down. “Relax and it won’t be as painful,” I say before I can stop the words vomiting from my mouth.
“Fuck you.” Her body sinks into the bed and I begin rubbing my special combination of coconut oil and shea butter deep into her skin. I use the combo so my needle doesn’t hang up on dry skin. When her flesh is supple, I step on the pedal, dip my needle into a cup of dimension black, and bend my wrist. My mind turns to the art like a switch flicking on and lighting a room. My brain focuses on lines and swirls. Color and shading now fill my world and it’s time to allow it free reign.
I begin with decisive lines and work on an area about twelve inches long. I never listen to music when inking. The hum of the Dragonfly X2 is my music and it takes me to a perfect place. My perfect world where nothing but my art exists.
Cindy discovered my artistic talents early on and tried to send me to classes. They didn’t last, because instructors did not accept my unconventional style. I painted scenes of blood and death. Men, women, and children were the victims in my youthful sociopathic mind. I drew horrible scenes of destruction—the bloodier and gorier the better. Putting a tattoo machine in my hand changed me. The combination of blood and ink became my savior and ended the self-destructive course I traveled. It may be creepy, but forever changing human skin is what took me from a quiet, homicidal kid to a kid with a passion other than causing permanent injury. I’ll never understand how Cindy saw past the little sociopath her husband brought home and gave me direction. I wasn’t the cuddly child her heart desired. I had one purpose. Cindy never tried to change me from her husband’s boogeyman. She accepted me for who I was.
Somehow she wove my cold fascination with death into a pliable realm where death lurked in the shadows and only came out when called. Like now…the urge to wrap my fingers around this woman’s throat and squeeze is hard to resist. How easy an escape for her if I were to follow through. Her skin would turn blue from lack of oxygen and her legs would thump against the table as she fought for air. The fingers of my left hand twitch against her skin. Too easy.
For her and her brother.
Her shoulders hitch every so often and I can tell she’s crying. Other than the occasional movement, she’s like a cadaver. The lines on her skin begin forming a rough design. I add ink and wipe the excess away. The next hour flies by as I become completely lost in my creation. Her voice brings me abruptly back to the woman beneath my needle.
“My brother hates me.”
She says it with conviction. I almost believe her. The words are flat and precise, very different from her attitude earlier.
“He’s hated me since I was born. My dad made sure of it. He wanted another son and Diego wanted a brother. Instead, they both received the perfect punching bag. The perfect victim for their tortures because I was trapped. They abused my mother too. At least while she lived, I had someone who understood and helped shield me from the horror.”
I continue working the outline of the banner. After a deep inhale, she goes silent for the next twenty minutes. During that time I think about anything but what she said. She’s doing her best to manipulate me because she thinks somewhere buried inside me is a heart. She’s wrong. I continue working and the next time she talks, I almost manage to block it from my brain.
“My first memory is my brother tripping me and laughing when a tooth went through the skin of my lower lip. He laughed harder while a doctor stitched me up. I’m not even sure how old I was…three maybe. I remember his smile.” She’s only silent for a few minutes this time. “A doctor and nurse came to our home. The nurse wrapped me in a blanket and held me while the doctor worked. My father wouldn’t allow my mother in the room and told me to stop crying. I did because I was more afraid of him than I was of the needle. When my father spoke, you listened. Diego learned everything he knows from my father. It doesn’t matter that he suffered at his hands too. Diego is a bigger monster than my father could ever imagine. He won’t stop until someone kills him. Playing games with him won’t help your cause. He’ll find you and you’ll beg him for death before he’s finished.”
I take my foot from the pedal and wipe her skin. We’re done for the night. Her words are barely a flutter of wings in my head. They mean nothing, because she will do anything to escape. She’ll lie, cheat, and steal. Hell, she was trained by her father and brother—she’ll fucking kill.
My dick grows hard at the thought. Imagining her standing in a pool of blood, wielding a knife, and spreading the thick wet drops around makes my dick hard. Maybe I’ll let her fight me before I return her to her brother. I’ll give her a knife and see what damage she can really do.
I treat her newly inked skin and cover it in plastic wrap. Taking my time, I cover the ink cups and sterilize the equipment and supplies. The last thing I do is remove the restraints from her arms and legs. I help her sit up, though I really don’t like touching her now that she’s not under my needle. Cindy was the only person who touched me and that was minimal because she knew I don’t like signs of affection.
I allow her to keep the blanket while I help her back to the wall. She remains deceptively quiet and I wonder what other stories she’ll come up with during tomorrow’s session. I don’t usually allow talking while I work, but I enjoy her voice even if I pay little attention to the words.
She’s lucky she wasn’t my sister. That would be a travesty.