“Please!” he wails, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll do anything! I’ll?—”
“You’ll shut the fuck up,” I snap, cutting him off. My voice is steady, but inside, I’m buzzing. Anger, adrenaline, justice—it all swirls together in a chaotic storm. “Do you think Margaux begged? Do you think she cried when you tore her down piece by piece? Did you stop then?”
Timmy whimpers, his head jerking away from my hand, but there’s nowhere for him to go. I grab another chunk, yanking harder this time, and his body spasms with the force of his scream.
The room fills with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat. Tufts of hair fall to the floor around us like a grotesque halo, dark against the concrete. With each pull, Timmy’s scalp becomes more exposed, a patchwork of blood and skin that glistens under the harsh overhead light, revealing the full extent of his balding scalp.
“You’re pathetic,” I mutter, grabbing the last remaining section of hair. “You always were.”
“No! No, no, no!” Timmy’s voice cracks as I pull, his raw cries descending into incoherent babbling.
When it’s done, I step back to admire my work. His head is a mottled mess—bleeding, inflamed, and completely bald. He looks up at me, his tear-streaked face contorted with pain and humiliation.
I grab a hand mirror from the table and hold it in front of him. “Take a good look, Timmy,” I say, my voice dripping with contempt. “That’s what the truth looks like. Ugly. Raw. Bare.Just like you.”
He stares at his reflection, sobbing uncontrollably, his body shaking with each ragged breath. “Why?” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Why are you doing this?”
I lean in close, so he can’t look away. “Because you need to feel what you madeherfeel,” I say, my tone ice cold. “This particular step is for lying to the cops and saying she pulled your hair,” I explain. “But beyond that, you stripped her of everything. Her confidence. Her dignity. Her joy. Now it’syourturn.”
I knock on the door, and my two associates re-enter the room.
“Time for a little road trip,” I explain to Timmy as they remove his restraints and lead him into a neighboring room, securing him to a metal chair.
I grab my phone and cue up the playlist I’ve prepared. With a tap, Machine Gun Kelly’s ‘Ay!’ blasts through the speaker, the repetitive beat and lyrics filling the room like an assault on the senses.
Timmy flinches, his face twisting in disgust.“What the fuck is this?”he shouts over the noise, but I don’t answer. Instead, I give him a wink and a pat on the shoulder before stepping out, locking the door behind me.
From the control room, I watch the camera feed. Timmy’s head snaps toward the door as it opens again, and a wiry man with sunken cheeks and jittery movements steps in. The meth addict’s eyes are wild, darting around the room like a cornered animal.
“Enjoy the company,” I murmur to myself, settling into a chair to watch.
At first, the man circles Timmy like a wary predator. Timmy tries to assert dominance, barking orders at the man, but it’s clear he has no idea who he’s dealing with. The addict is alreadyagitated, his movements erratic. It doesn’t take long for the tension to snap.
The first punch lands squarely on Timmy’s cheek, the crack of knuckles against bone loud even over the music. Timmy howls in pain, his head snapping to the side. Blood dribbles from his split lip as he spits a curse at the man.
I watch, unblinking, as the addict goes into a frenzy. His fists rain down on Timmy, who’s struggling futilely against the restraints. A sick sense of satisfaction blooms in my chest as Timmy’s face swells, his left eye darkening into a grotesque bruise. By the time the addict grabs a loose metal pipe and swings it against Timmy’s head, the once-cocky bastard is reduced to a sobbing, incoherent mess.
“Not so tough now, are you?” I mutter, watching Timmy slump in the chair, barely conscious. The addict paces the room, muttering to himself, occasionally throwing another jab at Timmy for good measure.
By morning, the music is still blaring, and the addict is curled up in the corner, twitching but spent. Timmy’s head hangs low, blood dripping from his swollen face onto his lap. His black eyes are nearly swollen shut, his lip split in multiple places, and there’s a nasty gash on his scalp that’s caked in dried blood.
I enter the room with my associates, the music cutting off abruptly. The silence is deafening, broken only by Timmy’s shallow, ragged breaths. He lifts his head weakly, squinting at me with one barely open eye.
“Look at you,” I say, crouching in front of him, a mocking smile tugging at my lips. “Black eyes, a fat lip, maybe even a fractured skull. But don’t worry, Timmy. They’re not real black eyes.”
His gaze flickers with confusion and anger, but he’s too broken to argue.
I stand, looking down at the pitiful shell of a man in front of me.
My associates bring Timmy back to the main room and re-secure him to the chair in the center of the room.
The needle gun is deceptively simple, just a handheld device with a small chamber full of thin, sharp metal needles. When triggered, it delivers rapid-fire pokes—like hundreds of tiny wasp stings—one after another. It’s not a tool meant to kill, but to break someone down piece by piece. And that’s exactly what I need right now.
I pick it up and feel the weight in my hand. It’s lighter than I expected, but there’s a heft to its purpose that resonates through me. This isn’t just about pain—it’s about control, about leveling the scales after everything he’s done to Margaux.
Timmy sits, still strapped to the chair in the center of the room, sweat dripping down his face despite the cool air. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths, and his eyes are wide, darting between me and the needle gun. He doesn’t know what it is yet, but he knows it’s not good.
“What... what is that?” His voice cracks, a mix of fear and defiance. He struggles against his restraints, testing the limits, but there’s no give. His fear is palpable, an almost electric current in the room.