One of his eyes is completely swollen shut, a purple-red mass of damaged tissue. The other is bloodshot and wide open, darting around in panic, still black from the meth head’s beating, struggling to comprehend the horror of what just happened. Hisnose is an unrecognizable mess, the cartilage smashed and the skin shredded by the force of the blast.
“Oh what?” I sneer, thinking about all the times he diminished Margaux’s pain. “It wasn’t even a very big firework. I could have used a festival ball instead.”
Timmy’s screams turn guttural, wet with the blood pooling in his throat. He coughs and chokes, writhing in pain as tears, mingled with soot and blood, streak down his distorted face.
“No... no! NO!” he shrieks, his voice hoarse and broken. “What did you do to me?! You... you ruined me!”
“I made you wear your sins,” I reply evenly, my own voice calm, almost detached. “This is what you really are, Timmy. Ugly. Destroyed. Just like the people you hurt.”
His sobs grow louder, his body trembling violently in the chair. He turns his head away from the mirror, but I grab his chin, forcing him to look. “No escape, Timmy. You don’t get to hide from yourself anymore.”
Inside, a dark satisfaction brews.He deserves this.Every moment of pain, every ounce of terror. But there’s also a weight that settles on me—a quiet acknowledgment of how far I’ve gone, of what I’ve become in the name of justice for Margaux.
Timmy’s cries grow weaker, his body slumping in the chair, defeated and disfigured. The room smells of smoke, blood, and burned flesh, the air heavy with the consequences of my actions.
And yet, I don’t feel an ounce of regret.
I grab the mirror I’d placed nearby and hold it in front of him. “Take a good look.”
I force Timmy to confront his grotesque reflection, his face pale and streaked with tears. His lips quiver as he takes in the devastation on his own features—the weight of what he’s become. For a moment, there’s silence. Then, a sob escapes his throat, raw and guttural.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Don’t you dare,” I growl. “This isn’t about what you meant. It’s about what youdid. This is the face of the man who destroyed lives, who left scars on Margaux that may never heal. This is who you are, Timmy.”
I set the mirror down, my own emotions swirling. Satisfaction? Maybe. But it’s not clean or pure. It’s tangled with anger, exhaustion, and a sadness that even justice can’t erase.
“You wanted to be seen,” I whisper. “Now, you are.”
With that, I leave the room, his ragged sobs trailing behind me.
When I finally step back, he’s a shadow of the smug, entitled man who tormented Margaux. His face is streaked with tears, his body covered in welts and scratches, his spirit broken.
But I’m not done.
I grab a handful of shells from the table—a mix of jagged and smooth, their edges sharp enough to cut. The same shells Margaux had collected during rare moments of peace, moments Timmy had managed to ruin. They feel heavy in my hand, weighted with the significance of what they represent.
Timmy’s eyes widen as he sees them, darting between the shells and my face. He shakes his head violently, his muffled protests spilling out as incoherent sounds.
“Open up,” I say, my voice calm but firm. He doesn’t comply, so I grab his jaw with one hand, digging my fingers into his cheeks until he has no choice but to part his lips. He’s shaking now, his whole body trembling as I push the first shell into his mouth.
It scrapes against his teeth as I shove another in, then another. The jagged edges dig into his gums, drawing blood that pools and mingles with his saliva. His muffled gagging sounds fill the room, panic and pain radiating off him like heat.
“Keep going,” I say, almost to myself, as I cram more in. His cheeks bulge grotesquely, and blood seeps from the corners ofhis mouth. Tears stream down his face, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe around the shards pressing into his tongue and throat.
Timmy thrashes against the restraints, his muffled cries growing more frantic with each passing second. But I don’t stop.
I grab a roll of duct tape and tear off a strip, pressing it over his mouth to seal the shells inside. “There,” I say, stepping back to admire my work. He looks pathetic, his face a mask of pain and terror. His muffled screams are barely audible now, his eyes wild with desperation.
“This,” I say, leaning in close, “is for every word you spat at her. Every insult, every lie, every cruel twist of the knife. You don’t get to speak anymore, Timmy. You don’t deserve to.”
He jerks his head, trying to dislodge the tape, his breathing ragged and labored. Blood dribbles down his chin, staining the duct tape as his muffled sobs turn into choking sounds.
I step back, arms crossed, watching him struggle. There’s no satisfaction in this—not the kind that feels good. But there’s justice. Cold, unrelenting justice.
“You’re quiet now,” I say, my voice low. “Funny how that works. You always had so much to say when you were tearing her apart. Where’s that big mouth of yours now, huh?”
I wheel over a full-length mirror and force him to look at himself again. “This is who you are, Timmy. Ugly on the outsideandthe inside. And when I’m done, the whole world will see it too.”