SWNOVELS Fear The Reapers: Chapter 4
Perception was everything in our world. It was the reason this entire town feared us. It was what drove my brothers to deal out brutal punishments, and it was what kept them from teetering over the edge of their sanity. My brothers relished in our reputation and fought with everything they had to keep what was ours.
A different beast drove me. Perception meant little to me, and truthfully, I didn’t give a fuck about what anyone else thought. Dealing punishment wasn’t a necessary evil. It was a means of releasing the darkness within. Inflicting pain was the one thing in the world that made me feel alive.
The basement below Hell’s Tavern was my domain. It was the one space where I could unleash without ramifications or judgement. The heavily insulated grey concrete walls surrounding me ensured no one could hear what went on. It went without saying that if they dragged you down to the basement of Hell’s Tavern, chances were, you weren’t ever coming back up.
Imagine Johnny Santos’ surprise when his own boys dragged his ass down here and left him at my mercy. He should’ve known their allegiance was with us. People rarely exhibit loyalty when up against a wall, and poor Johnny was the poster child for what happens when you trust the wrong people.
Wiping the sweat off my brow, I unplugged the power sander and tossed it aside. Slowly strolling back towards my tray of implements, I smiled to myself as I weighed my options.
“So many choices,” I taunted, grazing my fingertips against the various blades, “so little skin left.”
Grabbing the six-inch filet knife, I tossed it from hand to hand as I slowly made my way back towards Johnny’s hanging body. He winced when saw what I selected and gave him a broad smile in return. I made the right selection.
Everything I did had purpose, from the calculatedly slow stride of my oxfords to the uncomfortably warm, dimly lit room encapsulating us. Every move I made was to elicit fear from people like Johnny.
Genuine fear could make a three hundred pound grown man grovel on his knees. It could make an atheist pray to a God they never believed in. And in the tragic case of Johnny Santos, the fear of losing even more skin pulled gut-wrenching screams from his body.
He thought it would stop me, but his screams only egged me on further. I lived for fear and relished in the pain of others. Hurting a man who deserved it, only made his pain taste sweeter.
I sliced into his skin with expert precision, letting my blade glide through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. Starting with his forehead and working my way down, I sliced his flesh over and over again until there was nothing left to slice. It wasn’t until I’d run out of skin on his chest that I realized his screaming had stopped.
He was still breathing, but his eyes and mouth had stretched unnaturally wide, almost as if the fear had frozen him in place. When I inched closer to him, I could just make out the tiny rasps of breath that would’ve been his screams, had his vocal cords still been intact. Johnny was alive alright, but the fight in his eyes was no longer there.
As I stared at the man bleeding out before me, a small part of me felt for him. Not because of the wounds coating his raw flesh, but because he knew this was only the beginning.
Johnny had seen what my wrath looked like. All of our employees had. It was an initiation of sorts. It was hard for people to fear the unknown, so my brothers and I made it a point to show everyone who worked for us exactly what happens to those who betray The Reapers.
After another hour of slicing, his body had finally given up on him. Too weak to hold himself up, he allowed the chains around his wrist to carry the brunt of his weight as his body rotated in the center of the room. His resemblance to a slab of meat hanging in a butcher’s shop window was uncanny.
As I watched the last bits of Johnny’s life leave his swollen eyes, I placed a blank canvas beneath his swaying body and stared as his blood splatter bloomed across the canvas. Art had always fascinated me, but abstract expressionism was where my true passion lied.
There was something so enamoring about deciphering the story behind each stroke and splash of paint. Each piece told a story, if you searched hard enough. While I collected pieces from Pollock and Rothko, my own creations were my most prized possessions. Nothing could come close to watching someone’s sins literally bleed out on the canvas. It was my way of giving them one last chance to leave their mark on this earth.
With Johnny taken care of, the pressure in my skull eased and my steps felt lighter. Sure, killing Johnny was necessary, he had mis-stepped and his death was inevitable, but I needed the pain and violence for my sanity. It was my way of satiating the demons burrowed within me.
My brothers never fully understood it. Then again, they didn’t grow up in the same hell I did. The need to unleash myself was primal, and without it, I may end up hurting people who don’t deserve my wrath. People that I care about. People like my brothers.
I especially needed that release before our new pet came home. She would be a walking temptation, and the last thing I wanted to do was kill her before we had a chance to play.
The girl had been weighing on my mind ever since that pathetic imbecile offered her up. Whenever I unleashed on anyone, I always knew what they did and why they were in my domain. But with her, it would be different. I didn’t know a thing about her, only that she was ours and she once belonged to the meth head.
Logic would dictate that she had to be a user herself. Why else would she agree to be ours? It mattered little either way. My demons would welcome hers with open arms.
I had no idea what she looked like and already my cock was hard just thinking about her agony. Would pain make her scream? Or was she more of a silent crier? Would she let me fuck her while I licked up her tears? Would she try to fight me off?
Fuck, I thought, readjusting my cock. I needed to calm down. After all, she was ours now and wouldn’t be going anywhere. I could take my time with her and enjoy every second. Real art was a labor of love, and her downfall was going to be my greatest fucking masterpiece.