“Please!” he shrieks. “Please! I apologized! I’m sorry, I’ll never hurt her or anyone again! I’ll do better.”
Even now, in his current state, he’s future faking. Promising me he can be a good person.
“Oh, Timmy,” I say, shaking my head. “Now we both knowthat’snot true.”
I fetch a carafe from a shelf attached to the wall on the far side of the room. The weight of it feels satisfying in my hand. It’s a plain, unassuming container—nothing to indicate its vile contents. I turn back to Timmy, whose eyes are already darting from me to the carafe, suspicion etched into his features.
“Thirsty?” I ask, feigning kindness.
Timmy shakes his head vigorously, panic flashing in his eyes. After the pop tart incident, he knows damn well I’m not here to provide hospitality.
“Too bad,” I say, a sharp edge in my voice. “You’re having this anyway.”
I step closer, and his attempts to squirm away intensify. The restraints creak under his frantic movements, but he’s going nowhere. Slowly, deliberately, I tilt the carafe, and a foul-smelling yellow liquid pours out in a steady stream, splashing down onto his chest and soaking his naked, welted body.
The stench hits immediately—sharp, acrid, and unmistakable. It fills the room, clinging to the air like an invisible film. Timmy’s reaction is instant.
“What the fuck?” he yells, sputtering as some of the liquid splashes near his mouth. “You just pouredpissall over me?!”
I step back, letting the now-empty carafe dangle loosely in my hand, and shrug casually. “That’s for pissing all over Margaux,” I say, my voice calm, almost conversational. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.
Timmy freezes, his wide, horrified eyes locked on mine. I see it in his face—the flicker of shame that quickly gives way to terror. He knows this is more than just symbolic. He knows that I know. The things he did to Margaux, the threats he made—the ways he tried to break her spirit—are etched in my memory, and I intend to pay them back tenfold.
The sticky liquid clings to his skin, and he shivers, a combination of disgust, fear, and the cold air hitting the dampness. He grimaces as the smell intensifies, as if the weight of his own foul deeds has been physically poured back onto him.
“You’re disgusting,” he spits, trying to muster anger, but his voice trembles, betraying his fear.
“No, Timmy,” I reply, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “You’redisgusting. This isnothingcompared to what you deserve.”
He cringes, his face crumpling into a pitiful mask of dread. Deep down, he knows this isn’t the worst of it. Not even close. He knows this is just a warm-up. And he knows that I know every terrible thing he’s ever done to Margaux—the acts he tried to downplay, the ones he thought he’d gotten away with.
Timmy shifts uncomfortably in the chair, his body writhing against the restraints. The urine dries unevenly, squelching between his skin and the chair, and he grimaces at the sensation. The air between us is charged, thick with unspoken threats and Timmy’s growing realization of just how far I’m willing to go.
“There are plenty more steps to go here, Timmy,” I say, my voice low and cold. “And by the end of it, you’re going to wish you’d never laid a finger on her.”
His head drops, and for the first time, I see the fight leave him. Fear has taken hold, and he’s beginning to understand there’s no escape.
Good.This is where he belongs—powerless, humiliated, drowning in the consequences of his own actions. And I’m nowhere near done.
I step back and assess him as a hairstylist might evaluate a client. “Hmm...”
He flinches as he watches me retrieve another implement from my table of devices.
I stand over Timmy, his head restrained in a makeshift clamp I rigged to the chair. He’s still trying to wriggle out of his ties, twisting his body and bucking against the straps that bind him, but it’s futile. He’s not going anywhere.
I run my hand through his greasy hair, fingers curling around a thick lock. He flinches at the contact, his shoulders tensing beneath the straps.
“Oh relax,” I say coldly, though the command is more for me than him. My heart pounds in my chest as I grip tighter. “This is just a haircut. You’ll thank me for it later.”
Timmy’s voice is hoarse, trembling. “Man, you don’t have to do this. We can talk. I’ll apologize to Margaux. I’ll do anything. Please.”
“Too late for that,” I say, my voice devoid of sympathy. “You didn’t just hurt her. Youdestroyedher. And now it’s your turn.”
With a sharp yank, I rip the first chunk of hair from his scalp. Timmy screams, the sound raw and guttural. Blood seeps from the exposed follicles, dotting his pale skin with red. The sight of it ignites something primal in me—a grim satisfaction.
He thrashes harder, his cries echoing off the walls. “Stop! Please! Oh god, it hurts! It fucking hurts!”
“That’s the idea,” I say, grabbing another handful and pulling just as forcefully. The hair comes out with a sickening tear,leaving behind an uneven patch of raw, reddened scalp. Timmy’s sobs become louder, more desperate.