“Wait!” he calls after me, but I’m already too far away.
I look over my shoulder as I weave between the people on the sidewalk. “No time,boyfriend.I have things to do.”
People to kill.
Chapter 15
Scarlet
Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if I was normal. Or better yet, average. If my body worked like others do. If my mind didn’t follow this unconventional path. And if my mental health wasn’t battered so early on.
I’ve made peace with most of that, no matter how much I get lost in thought about it. What I wonder now is if any or all of the above are the explanation for mymood.
That’s what my brother calls it.“Oh, Scar, you’re in that mood again, aren’t you?”
It’s not how I would describe my rage-filled, recklessly explosive, and wildly destructive temper that takes over in certain situations, but I appreciate him, Dad, and Carmen for not judging me. Not to my face, at least.
None of them have a moral leg to stand on, anyway, but neither do they have this thundering need inside their souls that requires feeding on human tears to survive.
None of them do what I do.
They don’t have to see pain.
Bend it to their will.
Harness it.
I do.
“P—please . . . you don’t need . . . to do this.” The plea comes out slow, slurred.
Just like all the others before it.
These people never learn. It makes me wonder if I give off a merciful-woman vibe. Maybe I need to pick a bigger sledgehammer.
Yup. That must be it.
My cheeks strain with a wide grin as I turn away from the heavy-duty steel worktable Mr. Cohen currently lies on, fully strapped in. Though, he’s only tied up so he doesn’t accidentally fall on his face while I fucking punish every single bone in his body.
With the drug currently running through his system, he wouldn’t be going far, even without the straps. Benzodiazepine is a marvelous substance. It gives me the opportunity to subdue a full-grown man who’s much stronger than me, while keeping their ability to speak and feel pain. Well, kind of speak.
But the pain part is the most important one. I need them to feel itall.
I grab the red-handled, eight-pound sledgehammer, balancing it in both my hands as I return to the worktable.
“Much better, right?” I carefully swing the tool up and rest it on my shoulder, looking the asshole in the eyes the whole time.
He blinks between me and the offending article, gaze widening with every passing second. “No, oh God. What are you—”
“See, Mr. Cohen, I have an anger-management problem. Had it since I can remember. But it’s not just any ol’ anger issue. It’s one of those that could get me locked up. When it overcomes me, the only way to appease it is to make people like you hurt. Bad.” I pause, watching him begin to tremble.
Though, with the effects of the drugs, it looks more like a pathetic, weak twitch.
“The reason why it would get me locked up, not exclusively in a prison, but in one of those darling places for the criminally insane, is because beating you isn’t what tickles my nervous system. Your pain is. Your tears.”
The man begins to whimper, a soft, pitiful sound that stops the moment I cock my head. He shakes his, defiance breaking through his gaze.
“No . . . I won—no tears,” he mutters.
