When I entered the kitchen I felt strangely
calm. Missie was quiet for the moment, slumped over
in her chair, perhaps tired out from her earlier
struggles. Unable, because of the gag, to make a sound,
her eyes followed me avidly, tracking my every move.
When Zack and I first tied her up Missie was boiling
mad, but enough time had gone by for the fear to sink
in. Also, she saw us drag Father out to the yard. So she
knew something serious was going down.
I told Zack and Mamma to wait outside. This
was between me and Missie. I walked over to the
counter by the sink and took the big butcher knife
from the drawer. Its weight was solid and real in my
hand. Missie’s eyes were huge, terrified orbs and she
began to struggle frantically as I approached her.
“So how does it feel, Missie?,” I asked, my
voice soft with hatred. The eerie calmness continued
to envelop me. The anger was there, but it felt like it
was behind a thick pane of glass. Visible, but not quite
reachable.
I flicked the knife blade against Missie’s hair,
cutting loose a curly dark lock. “How do you like being
scared?”, I whispered. “Not so funny now, is it? Not
when it’s you who’s scared, you who’s hurting. Did
you really think I’d forgive it all, Missie? The pain, the
humiliation?”
I drew the knife across her naked body in
delicate strokes, adjusting to the feel of it in my hand.
Superficial cuts, they were deep enough to summon
blood, yet not cause any real damage. Still, Missie
squirmed and writhed, her struggles frenzied, harsh
grunts escaping from behind the gag.
45