“Get comfy,” I say. “You’re going to be here for a while.”
He lets out a whimper as tears slide down his cheeks.
The session continues, a twisted symphony of his screams, my calm instructions, and the rhythmic hum of the wood chipper waiting in the wings. He cries, begs, and pleads, promising anything if I’ll just stop.
But I don’t.
Instead, I pick up the shiny, white toilet lid and smack it over his head. He cries out and sits, stunned, while I take its jagged edge and run it down his arm, cutting a deep gash into his badly tattooed flesh. Crimson pours from the wound, large drops landing on the floor at his feet.
I bring out a device with a sturdy metal frame and multiple prods attached to the end. The device hums to life with a low mechanical whirr, a sound that feels almost innocuous compared to what it’s about to unleash. The rows of polished steel rods begin their rhythm, prodding forward and retracting in perfect synchronization. The tips gleam under the dim light, deceptively small but unyielding.
Timmy’s eyes widen as the realization sinks in. "What the fuck is that?" he spits, thrashing against the restraints. His voice cracks, the cocky defiance slipping as fear tightens its grip on him.
“It’s something special, just for you,” I say, my voice cold, detached. “Think of it as... poetic justice.”
I position the device near his exposed arms first, the rods set to randomize their poking pattern. With a single press of a button, the motion intensifies. The first few pokes are almost laughably gentle, but then the rods begin to land harder, faster. The tips press into his skin, leaving faint red marks that quickly deepen into bruises.
Timmy flinches, gritting his teeth, but the composure doesn’t last long. “Stop! Fuck, that hurts!” he yells, his voice high-pitched, panicked.
“Does it?” I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. “Good. Imagine what Margaux felt every time you chipped away at her, one cruel comment at a time. One lie. One bruise—hidden or otherwise.”
The rods continue their relentless assault, targeting his biceps, forearms, and ribs. His skin mottles with deep purple bruises, each poke igniting a new jolt of pain. He writhes againstthe bindings, sweat dripping from his temple, but there’s no escape.
“You’re fucking insane!”he screams, his voice hoarse, cracking with desperation.“Let me go, you psychopath!”
I lean in close, my voice barely above a whisper. “You thinkI’minsane? You’ve barely scratched the surface, Timmy.”
The device shifts to his thighs, and the repeated jabs force his legs to twitch involuntarily. He lets out a guttural yell, his bravado completely gone. Tears streak down his face now, pooling at the edges of his quivering lips.
“You don’t get to cry,” I snap, my voice suddenly sharp. “Margaux cried enough for a lifetime because of you.”
As the machine continues, a strange sensation washes over me—a mix of satisfaction and hollowness. The satisfaction comes from seeing him unravel, watching as the mask he wore so confidently shatters piece by piece. But the hollowness? That’s harder to explain. Maybe it’s because I know this will never undo what he did to Margaux. No amount of pain I inflict on him can truly erase hers.
I step back, watching as Timmy’s entire body trembles, his skin blotched and swollen. He’s sobbing now, broken in a way I once thought impossible for someone as narcissistic as him.
“I’ll do anything,” he pleads, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry. Please stop.Please.”
The apology is hollow, forced, a pathetic attempt to save himself. I know it’s meaningless. But I record it anyway, every word, every broken sob. Margaux deserves to hear him grovel, even if it’s a farce.
My hand hovers over the control panel. The machine slows, then halts, the rods retracting one final time. Timmy’s head hangs forward, his body shaking with silent sobs. I crouch down to meet his eye level, forcing him to look at me.
“You’re nothing,” I tell him, my voice steady, quiet. “And you’re going to feel every ounce of pain you put Margaux through before I’m done.”
He stares at me, his face a canvas of terror, pain, and humiliation. For a brief moment, I wonder if he regrets everything, anything. But I dismiss the thought just as quickly as it comes. People like Timmy don’t regret—they rationalize, justify, excuse.
And that’s why this isn’t over.Not yet.
Keeping his hands restrained, I drag him from the chair to the shiny metal table in the center of the room. It gleams under the harsh overhead light, a sterile contrast to the dark intentions I’ve brought here. He stumbles, his bound feet clumsy as he struggles against me, muttering incoherent protests.
“Please, no—what are you doing?!” His voice cracks, raw with desperation, but I ignore him.
I position him on his back, forcing his head to dangle off the end of the table, lower than his feet. The blood rushes to his face, turning it blotchy and red, making the panic in his eyes stand out stark against his flushed skin.
“Stop! You can’t do this!” he screams, jerking his body uselessly as I press his shoulders down. He can’t move. He’s powerless.
“Quiet, Timmy,” I say, my voice calm, almost detached. “We’re just getting started.”
I grab a dark cloth from the table nearby and slowly place it over his face, ensuring it covers his mouth and nose completely. His muffled pleas grow more frantic, his chest heaving beneath the restraints as he fights to suck in air. The fabric muffles his voice, turning his words into unintelligible whimpers, but the terror in his tone is unmistakable.