22. Make An Exit

Rats.

I remember them fondly. My old friends.

All those times I was locked in the closet to endure my shame, the rats would always keep me company. I rub the soft hair between Gus's ears. His nose twitches, searching for an exit from my grasp. His body is coiled tight and ready to bolt on the first chance at escape.

Sampson Senior, the only one left alive in my path of destruction, lies naked and strapped to my examination table. He's been in and out of consciousness since I dragged him up there. It's only a matter of time before the fun begins. My little rodent friend, Gus, squeaks as if sensing it, too. I tut and soothe him, cradling him in my hands. As if on cue, Sampson stirs.

"I think we've waited long enough," I whisper, tucking Gus back into his box. His nails scratch the top. He's as desperate as I am to get this show on the road.

This time, Sampson won't be allowed to fall back to sleep unless it's for good. I crack the smelling salts stick beneath his nose, then step behind him. Sampson blinks his eyes, attempting to regain focus, but his face is as white as one of the clinic's paper gowns. His cheeks puff out as his arms tug on the tourniquets restraining his wrists. Once he realizes the situation he's in, he panics. Then he throws up chunks of what looks to be noodles and potatoes all over his chest and stomach.

"That's fucking pathetic," I state, giving his a real spook since I'm out of his line of sight.

He cranes his neck to find me, but he can't. Giving up, he lays back on the headrest before closing his eyes and taking slow, deep breaths. He's still trying to gather himself after that hit to the head I gave him.

He settles after a few moments of squirming and pulling at his bindings, his color appearing almost normal. When I think it's time to begin our tête-à-tête, unexpectedly, he screams, "What the fuck?" Viciously, he pulls on his restraints, but there's no way he's getting out of those bindings. "Why are you doing this to us?"

It's like music to my ears. This is the moment I've waited for. I should record this then, I could play this number-one hit every day of my life. He roars, pulling and kicking against the handcuffs, cutting into his ankles. Satisfaction blankets me in its warmth at his anger. He deserves everything coming to him after helping my father cover up my mother's death. His name was on the police report, which wasn't very smart of him.

"I think it's only fair." I stroll around to the foot of the table with my hands shoved in my back pockets.

His eyes are wide as he tracks me. My movements are slow and measured as I circle my prey. He knows what he's done and is no longer getting away with it. He's sweating, and his panic is palpable. It's thick in the air. I draw it out as if there's a way I could capture this moment in a jar for my brain to open later and feast upon.

"What do you mean, fair? What's fair? What's this about?" he demands as if he doesn't already know.

His carotid arteries thrum in his neck, and I know his heart is racing. He knows he's a liar. I know too well because I'm the better liar here. They never saw me coming. Blood from the others I've killed dries on my skin as evidence that I've played the best of them. They didn't even suspect I was acting as Jeremy. Sampson yells in frustration again, pulling and kicking. His feet are cuffed to the stirrups in the most vulnerable position he's ever been in. Or maybe not. I mean, I did just catch him having a threesome with his son. It's reminiscent of my childhood in a way. A smile tugs at my lips at the retribution coming to me. And part of that retribution is in my pocket. I remove the knife I discovered in the pocket of his abandoned clothing.

"Where'd you get that?" His voice wobbles with fear as he attempts to cover it with gruffness. He doesn't do a great job of masking it, though. I know the truth.

"There's no need to play ignorant here." I point the tip at his discarded pile of clothes. His lay in a heap, unlike how my brother neatly folded his before I killed him. "Your gun felt good in my palm, though, if I'm being honest. I bet it makes you feel like a big man, doesn't it? You use it to intimidate others," I continue, twirling the knife between my fingers. "Only a small, scared man would use a gun, though. A knife is so much more... personal." I tap the tip beneath his chin, ensuring he's looking at me. "Your death will be as exciting as my father's was."

Senior's nostrils flair as I reveal something I've never told anyone. His death was ruled a natural one since he had a heart attack on the anniversary of my mother's death. A broken heart. Ha! It's almost laughable that people actually believed he cared enough to die for her and not because of her.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he asks, brows bunching in question. It's all a show, and I won't be played. "What have we ever done to you? I'm a cop. You can't do this!" Pigs throw their title around as if that means anything to me. I'm above the law now.

"There's no getting out of here. You might as well stop," I quip, moving the knife to his throat. His Adam's apple bobs beneath the point of the blade. He could cut himself on it if I press a bit harder. "And as for what I'm talking about, you can stop acting like you didn't help my father murder my mother. It was your name on the police report. You're the reason I'm the way I am."

Hyperextending his neck, he attempts to get away from me, but it's no use because I just dig it in a little deeper. He won't die this way. I've been waiting for too long to watch him writhe in pain for what he's done.

"You left me with my no-good father and twin brother. Your son was no help while growing up either." I remove the knife and point to where his son is dead and broken in the hallway. It's a reminder to him that I'm the only one who will leave here breathing. He sneers at my gesture but doesn't say anything. Good! I'm glad he's understanding now. "He was a nasty little shit… always trying to trick me," I continue, reminiscing the times he told me my mother left because of me. He convinced my brother I was the liar, turning him against me. "He'd tell me that he saw her. That she wasn't dead. But she is dead! I saw her! I fucking found her!" I raise my voice before catching myself. I have to take a step back, running my hand through my hair.

"Jax?" When I don't acknowledge his question one way or the other, he continues, " I had nothing to do with your mother," he pleads before screaming, "I don't know what you're talking about!" Spit flies from his lips, and the denial is causing the pressure in my head to build again.

I flip the angle of the knife and rush him. He whimpers, closing his eyes. His lips move in silent prayer as the blade sinks into the cushion next to his head. His reaction zaps electricity in my veins. I want him terrified and guessing. This death would be too good for him. Too quick.

He peeks through his lashes at me, and I whisper, "A knife through the brain would be merciful. You don't deserve mercy." I grin, knowing it's unnerving him. "I guess you could say I have mommy issues."

His face reddens with anger. "You're an evil shit! You probably fucked your mother!" he roars.

The suggestion of me doing anything like that to my mother, the good-hearted woman she was, makes my blood boil. I need to move on to the real action before I drag the knife across his throat and end this before it even gets going.

"She was pregnant. I remember that. My brother may not have known, or maybe he chose to forget that bit of information entirely, but she was. I remember hugging her large belly… And…," My voice grows more lethal. "I remember it being gone when I found her dead." I prowl around him on the table, stalking my prey. "You killed her, then staged it as a suicide. You may have fooled everyone else, but not me." I point to my chest, standing at his feet. His dick and balls have shriveled inside of him. Another turtle balloon animal in the making, that is, if he survives what I have for him next, which will be impossible. "Anyways. Let's begin your examination, shall we?"

The tray to my right holds all the tools I could ever need, but I really only need one. I lift the speculum and the fluorescent light glints off its shiny metal.

"What! No, no. Don't come near me with that thing," he yells, trying to scoot his lower half away from me.

"This will only take a moment," I reassure him as if he were one of my regular patients. "If you don't keep still, you'll only make this worse on yourself."

Sweat beads above his upper lip. He's scared, and it's satisfying all my demons.

Lifting the clear gel, I squirt it from tip to shaft onto the metal device. It'll need a hefty amount of lube for the tight space it's about to enter. With his legs spread wide for me in the stirrups, there's no way he could ever get away from me. The funny part is the more he screams, the more his brown eye winks at me. It's like a beacon, welcoming me in. I aim at his asshole with the device and ram it in.

He screams, bucking on the table. The cuff and stirrups clang together in his struggle as I open the device to its widest setting. Even his internal muscles are attempting to reject the speculum, but there's no way he's dislodging it. It's locked in place, holding his rectum open for me. I grab my box containing my furry friend. I've thought about this for a long time, wondering how I could pay him back for all these years of torment. It took years of research and learning from the mafia to develop this one. I'm hoping it goes as planned. If it doesn't, I'll just gut him.

I pull Gus from the cage. He's squirming and squeaking, making himself known to our guests. "Look, I've never tried this," I admit, grinning, "but I've read many medical books and have seen it done. A gerbil is placed in an open cavity then said cavity is sewen closed." I hold Gus up and look into his black, beady eyes. "However, gerbils don't really exude the fear that rats do. Rats are much more feral. You know they're cannibals when the need arises?"

"Wha… wha… what?" He's trembling now, and my muscles are jittering from excitement.

Placing Gus at the man's opening, he takes off, sinking into the darkness. Before Gus can turn himself around, I remove the speculum holding Sampson Senior's asshole open. Gus's exit is closed off, leaving him to make his own. Blood and gel coat the device from the rips it caused. The metal object clatters when I chuck it onto the table, not worrying about cleaning it. There's no point. I'll never return to this place or play as a gynecologist again.

Sampson's screams begin immediately. His body twitches roughly, looking like he's having a severe seizure. Gus is doing his job. That's made very clear when Sampson Sr. starts shitting blood.

"Damn, don't shit on me." I step back with my hands up. I'm positive Sampson didn't hear me because he's hyperventilating and gasping like a fish. Then a bulge protrudes from his stomach. "Gus is working fast. Maybe I shouldn't have fed him my leftover cocaine."

"I…," Sampson Sr. sputters, "I…"

I lean in, wanting to hear his last words. Then Sampson belches, coating my face in wet warmth, making me regret my curiosity. Blood drips from his lips, down his chin, and speckling his chest. He's a glorious mess.

"I… didn't." Sampson Sr. tries to speak again, but all that comes out is, ‘I… didn't' over and over.

His breathing slows, and his eyes are glassy. Is he dead already?

His throat moves, and I lean in, but not as close as before. A brown nose and whiskers peak from his mouth. Gus finds his exit. Oh, yeah. Todd Sampson Senior is definitely dead.

Mayhem.Destruction. Havoc.

Hell.

A typical person would use those words to describe this carnage. But I think it's beautiful. It's my Monet of mutilation. And now I'm going to have to blow it all up. I'm a little sad that all my hard work is going up in flames, but there's beauty in that as well. I'm a little sad to see this all eradicated. I turned on an oxygen tank to fill one of the examination rooms with my vintage butane lighter. It's flame ready to ignite at any given moment. Pretty soon, this whole building will be obliterated. These people don't deserve to be burned. They deserve to rot. To have rats and roaches slowly eat away at their bodies and eventually be turned into shit. Too bad Gus Gus got a taste for blood and was still hyped up on cocaine, or I'd have taken him with me. R.I.P. Gus Gus. At least his last meal included bacon of sorts.

On my journey to the front door, I see the receptionist. The blood around her has coagulated into jello, and glass shards protrude from her face and neck. They don't shine, just like I knew they wouldn't. I'm about to keep walking out the front door when a reflection catches me off guard. There's a glint of gold on the receptionist's chest, and I inch closer, squinting. Oh, shit!

I laugh uncontrollably, causing my abs to hurt. I'm doubled over with tears pooling at the corners of my eyes, and I briskly wipe them away. "Ha! Agnes! Her fucking name was on her name tag the whole time!"

Even after leaving the clinic covered in the blood of those who set me on this path of destruction, an insatiable hunger still gnaws at my bones. I can't help but think of the one that could settle this ache within my marrow. A woman who quenches a thirst I didn't know I had. The one that is becoming more and more like a drug to me than my ladies Lucy, Crystal, or Angel Dust could ever be.

That's why I'm standing at the end of her bed while she's curled up on her side, sleeping like the dead.