A rustling of papers can be heard clearly over the silent room as I sort my files on my desk. There is nothing I hate more than uncleanliness, and having papers scattered all over my desk irks me to no end. Once that's done, I start on my computer until a knock comes at the door. "Yes?" I say. "It's time," a gruff voice comes from the other side of the door. "Fine," I reply, pushing back from my desk. I walk around, making sure to grab my keys and phone before walking out of the door and locking it behind me. On the walk to the basement, I pop in one wireless earbud and find my playlist on Spotify. Sade's "The Sweetest Taboo" starts to play, and I put my phone away, taking the stairs all the way down to the basement with Tyrell—one of my guards—at my back. Once we make it all the way down, Tyrell stops at the bottom of the staircase as I continue to make my way inside. The floor is bare concrete, and the walls are black brick with burgundy wood shelves lined up, adorned with many things collected over the years. This is the business area of the basement; prisoners only come to this center room when they are summoned for questioning or torture. There are only two prison cells down here—there is never a need to have more. Prisoners are rare and never stay long. The sound of slow, steady breathing is the only sound coming from the room at this point, and, if they aren't bawling by now, then my work is going to be cut out for me. But that just makes it more interesting for me. I smile and walk directly into view of my new guest—a traitor, a young guy who couldn't have been more than 24, turned for a paycheck. When will people learn that a few dollars is not worth ending up here?
This room is the last place you would want to end up in under any circumstance. And when you find yourself in the same position as this clown, you'll give up every dime really quick to stop what's about to happen to him. I always wonder at what point they regret the day they ever betrayed the Stanton family. We know exactly who our enemies are, and if you get flipped, well, it fucking sucks to suck once you find yourself in this room. I guess it really doesn't matter at the end of the day; no matter if it was your sick mother's hospital bills or just plain greed, the end result is inevitable: a torturous, horrible death at my hands, and I find great pleasure in my work, so don't expect your end to be quick. I've been in charge of this part of the business since I was 18; I sat in and started learning the ropes when I was 16. I'm under the impression that my father is trying to carve away any chance of me being too soft by making sure my hands are the bloodiest of all while simultaneously ensuring I'm familiar with every enemy as well as their tricks, given the nature of my role in all this. My mother, God rest her soul, was the raw opposite of my father in every conceivable way, which is probably why they worked out so well and created a successful empire the way they did. An unfortunate car accident took her life; according to the police reports, it was a drunk driver, but of course, we put our men on it to make sure that is, in fact, the real story. The justice can be bought like any other schmuck, so you can never be too careful. With my siblings overseeing other aspects of the business to make sure we all know exactly what we should be stepping into, I might be the future head of the family, but we are all essential to the family business. My father has four children: me, of course, being the oldest at 27, followed by my brother Finn, who is 24, sister Willa at 21, and my little big-head brother Marcus, the youngest at 17. Being firstborn, I am, of course, first in line to take over the business when my father decides to retire or die. Old-school customs don't share a plate in this family, so the fact that I'm a woman only means I have to be more ruthless and smarter than the other heads, and my father has never let a day go by without reminding me of that fact. His favorite line is, "Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves," and it took a long time before the weight of that statement really stuck with me.
I walk past my guest and study my equipment table, looking over every piece, thinking about what I need and the best way to get it based on the information collected on this idiot. Apparently, he used his position as guard of the house to spy and leak information. Given how many hands we have to have in service, it's always a risk to get a spy here and there, but we have been doing this a long time and have our own ways of keeping secrets. But you never really know how much someone has learned about you just from being in your atmosphere and watching your every move. There are certain details that I absolutely have to get, such as how long he was hired as well as how they got to him. We keep close eyes on the employees closest to the home, and there had been no suspicious activity physically with his whereabouts or his communication devices. I decided slow and steady would be the best approach; he's young, so he can handle a little drawn-out questioning without risk of a heart attack or anything like that. I grab a scalpel and a pair of medical tweezers, elated with the task I've given myself. I turn around and smile while walking toward him. "So, what do you know, bud?" I say when I come into view. Being too specific can bite me in the ass, and broader questions can lead to things I didn't see at the start. He looked down at my hands and smirked. "Stupid fucking bitch thinks she can intimidate me! You should have come down here with a lot more guys, sweetheart," he says, spitting at me in the end for emphasis. I can clearly see his level of intelligence, given the fact that he is the one tied up and still thinks I'm the one that needs backup. "I don't need anyone else, handsome, just you and me." As I say this, starting from his shoulder, using the scalpel, I make a long incision horizontally, not that deep, just enough for a small trickle of blood to flow. Before I begin my procedure, I look him square in the eye as a last-ditch effort to get him to start talking before I begin. But he doesn't take the hint, so I get right to work. Looking as happy as a kid in a candy store, smiling and making full eye contact, I start to flay the skin off his arm without another word. Now more satisfying sounds of screaming and thrashing can be heard while my earbud changes over to Lauryn Hill's "Ex-Factor," and I soak it all in while I work. I make sure to do a thorough job without missing a single scrap of flesh to the best of my abilities. Once I was at the fingertips, I looked up at him again, gauging whether or not I've done enough for the desired effect. I really took my time on this one, making sure to keep him right in that sweet spot of almost being too much but not enough pain for him to pass out, riding the fine line of excruciating pain like a well-traveled highway. I just love the way the screams echo off the bare walls, falling in with the music of my choice, making this experiment just that much more riveting. He sits there whimpering and panting, not so tough after losing a pound of flesh.
