“No, I didn’t think it would be easy.” I shrugged a heavy shoulder, leaning forward until our faces were mere inches apart. “It’s not going to be easy for you. Not at all.”
I leaned back and nodded at Nikolay. He pushed a white cloth into Artur’s mouth and stepped back, looking at his handy work.
Viktor walked over to the back table and came back with his favorite equipment. Clippers. They usually chopped off the fingers clean and without much effort.
Nikolay also came back with a spiral knife. My favorite.
He handed it to me while I watched Viktor get to work. It started out slow. A few punches, choking Artur, and when he still didn’t talk, Viktor moved to the nails.
It hurt like a son of a bitch. Artur’s screams were muffled by the cloth, but the way his body trembled, it was obvious he was in terrible pain.
He hadn’t lost any fingers yet. Only three nails.
I raised my hand, and Viktor immediately stopped. Nikolay tore the cloth from Artur’s mouth, and he screamed as the pain coursed his fingers and traveled its way through his body.
His hand was strapped to the arm rest, and I saw the way his fingers shook. They were covered in blood, and I chuckled at the sight.
“You want to talk now?” I wondered, looking at his bloody mess.
“Fuck…you…” he wheezed.
“No? You don’t want to?” I taunted. “Okay then. Enjoy.”
Viktor held the clipper over Artur’s index finger, just below the first knuckle.
He waited. Waiting was a form of mental torture. The best way to break someone. Waiting made them tense, more alarmed, and their fear would hold no bounds.
I counted the seconds in my head.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Artur screamed. He bellowed so loud my ears rang. His pain was music to my ears, and I sat down on the chair behind me.
“That was barely a finger,” Viktor muttered as he stared at the bloody knuckle on the floor.
“Make sure he doesn’t bleed to death,” I snapped. We weren’t done with him yet. Not until we had our answers and Ayla safe in our room.
A few minutes passed, another finger lost. One on each hand.
I waited to see if he would talk, but Artur stayed stubbornly quiet. Shaking my head to repress my frustrated growl, I got up and Viktor moved out of the way.
Leaning forward, I grabbed Artur’s chin. “If you talk, this is going to be easy on you,” I warned.
“I…know…you…” he gasped. “Doesn’t…matter…if I talk…or not…I won’t…make…it…out alive…either way.”
I cocked my head to the side, regarding him with curious eyes. “Smart. You’re right. You won’t make it out alive either way. But I’ll make your death quicker if you speak.”
Another lie and he knew it.
When he didn’t speak, I sighed just for a good measure. Taking my sweet time, I strolled around his chair, giving him some time to catch his breath.
I stopped in front of him again. He was staring at his feet, his swollen lips set in a tight, stubborn line.
I lightly dragged the spiral knife down his cheek, not enough to break his skin. But it was enough to let him know what was about to happen next.
When the knife reached his other cheek, I pressed it harder, and blood oozed through the broken skin. He winced but stayed quiet, biting on his lip to stop the scream.
I knew the spiral knife burned where it cut and Artur was probably in agony.
I dragged the knife to his neck, leaving trail of blood. The skin turned red, and I pulled away. His breathing was harsh and labored. Each breath appeared difficult to inhale and exhale.
I moved the knife to his thighs, making cuts as I went. The cuts weren’t too deep, just enough to cause pain that would be unbearable after a few minutes.
“Are you ready to talk now?” I asked after his screams calmed down.
He hissed and glared at me. I shook my head. Nikolay paced the floor while Viktor got to work again.
Two more nails and fingers.
And then I made cuts over his body.
Sometimes we walked out of the room, leaving Artur alone to breathe through his pain. And then we were back. It kept going like that…for hours. Until I started to feel helpless and completely hopeless.
The next time we walked into the room again, Artur’s head was hanging low. It was already morning. For an hour, I paced outside Maddie’s room, debating if I should go in or not.
But guilt weighed heavily on my heart. Instead, I stayed outside.
Then, I was in the piano room, wishing Ayla was there. Another pang of guilt. Another wave of pain.
After an hour of wallowing in self-pity, I walked away and made my way into the basement.
The fury was back in full force. The air smelled of blood. It felt heavy with death and uncertainty.