6-July-2018
I’ve always known that scrapbook shops were sketchy.
Snip.
The woman whimpered as I cut the last of her dark, curly hair down to her scalp. Sweat ran down her face, and every inch of her body trembled. She’d wet the gag in her mouth with both tears and spit. But her eyes. There was still defiance in her brown eyes.
I smiled. “Honey, you have one more chance to tell me what I want to know.” I leaned close. “I suggest you take it.”
Her breathing sped up, and her eyes darted around my scrapbooking shop. They found the rack of fancy scissors and focused on it, as if she could will a pair to fly from there into my back.
“You’re not going to find anything here to help you,” I said. “No one will hear you scream, and your life will be wasted.” I put my hand on her cheek, my red, manicured nails stroking her face. “But if you tell me what I want to know, this all stops.”
The determination in her eyes cracked. Just for a moment. When it snapped back I smiled, knowing I was making progress. The less I had to cut off of her the less I would have to clean up before morning.
The scissors in my other hand glinted in the light as I raised them. “All you have to do is tell me about your family.”
At the mention of her family, she growled something through the gag.
“What was that?” I asked, leaning closer. “Are you ready to talk?”
The steely look in her eyes told me that she was not.
I sighed. “Well then, I guess we do this my way.”
The torture was simply a means to an end. I needed more children before tomorrow night. This woman had been into my shop several times over the past month, and while she brought plenty of pictures of her family, she didn’t look at them like other people.
Some adored their children so much that it was all I could do to get a word in edgewise after I asked them about a picture. Others answered sparingly, but still with passion. But there were a select few whose love didn’t penetrate all the way into their soul.
I still didn’t know why it happened. The very act of bearing a child should seal the bond between parent and child, but for some it did not.
This was one of those women. She smiled and spoke of her kids as if they were the family pets. Accomplishments were showered with lavish parties and expensive gifts—a compensation for the lack of real love in her heart. She spent as much time away from them as she could, while pretending to miss them.
She didn’t deserve them.
I knew the woman was an architect, so I moved the scissors—an old, heavy pair that could cut through bone—down to the index finger on her right hand.
“Nice nails,” I said. “Where did you get them done?”
She stared at me as if I had grown an extra nose.
“Well, your next appointment will be shorter.” I opened the scissors with a tiny squeak and slid them around her finger.
Her hand tried to cringe away, but the straps on the table held her fast. She thrashed, but didn’t get anywhere.
The woman let out a string of grunts and words.
I sighed, pulled the scissors away and looked into her wide eyes. “What was that.”
She shook her head and spoke. The gag kept the words garbled.
“Why don’t you just nod yes or shake no. Will you surrender your children to me?”
The defiance snapped back into place, and she shook her head.
“Perhaps I underestimated you,” I said.
Snip.
The woman screamed.
No one heard.
***
