I hit play on a projector, showing a montage of Margaux’s pain—her bruises, her tears, her laughter forced through gritted teeth. This is almost over, and I need him to remember his crimes, and why we’re here. But we’re not quite done yet.
And there’s only one thing that will hurt him more.
I show footage of his father, bound to the chair the night before, forced to face the evidence of his son’s evilness. As acreative flourish, I faked a recording so his father’s voice echoes in the background, calling him a disappointment. A failure.
For the first time, real fear flickers in Timmy’s eyes.
But even in this moment of imagined triumph, I know it’s not enough.
It will never be enough.
Dragging Timmy is easy at this point, and I move him back to the table where I secure him to the cold metal surface.
I walk to the corner of the room and pick up a chainsaw.
Timmy’s eyes grow wide as I turn on the equipment, the chains whirring loudly. He moans, shaking his head, nonverbally begging me to stop.
“You were just fine threatening to chop Margaux’s head off multiple times,” I shrug. “Seems only fitting you get the treatment you promised her.”
I aim for Timmy’s right arm, the whirring chains slicing through his soft tissue, muscles and bones with ease.
He roars in pain, even around the shells, and then grows quiet as his body enters a state of shock, temporarily dulling the excruciating sensation. His breath grows shallow, and he blinks repeatedly as if trying to process what just happened.
I move around to the other side of the table. “This is also for not being able to keep your hands to yourself,” I explain.
I slice off his second arm, blood spraying everywhere with each heartbeat. He screams in agony and panic, his cries quickly turning hoarse. He hyperventilates as he tries to breathe away the pain.
He screams through the tape, incoherent now, desperate for me to stop. His eyes are wide, and his head moves rapidly from side to side as he attempts to comprehend what’s happening.
He shifts on the table, a feeble attempt to escape.
But Margaux was desperate for him to stop his constant attacks, and he never did—so why should I?
Moving to the end of the table, the vibrations of the chainsaw reverberate through my hands as I sever his lower limbs one by one.
His body twitches uncontrollably due to the sudden severing of nerves.
The heat and scent of blood in the room are impossible to ignore.
He gasps as his removed limbs also twitch on the floor, residual nerve activity making it look as if they’re alive independent of Timmy. I laugh.It is kind of funny.
There’s not a lot of time left.
He knows it. His eyes are flat, dead.
He sobs as he continues to bleed out, his mind struggling to process the trauma.
I almost feel pity for Timmy at this point as he continues to thrash, limbless, beaten, broken. What he’s experienced today is brutal. But the crazy part is, all of these things are either actual things he did to Margaux, threatened to do, implied he could do, or symbolic representations of the psychological and emotional torment he put her through on a daily basis.
He shrieks as I take my final slice with the chainsaw and slice his dick off. It falls to the floor with a dull thud.
I turn toward the wood chipper, running my hand along its edge. My breath comes faster as I imagine the scene that will follow.
But as I reach for him, I stop. A chill runs down my spine as I realize this isn’t the moment I’ve been waiting for. Not yet.
The room dissolves, and I’m back in my workshop, staring at the plans I’ve spent weeks perfecting. It’s not real—not yet. But it will be.
And when it is, Timmy will wish for death long before it comes.