Page 20 of Pink Ink

Mother was never given the opportunity to seek professional care for her injuries—not unless it was a “car accident.”

I run the instrument over the grooves, feeling for the middle bone before I lower the mallet again with a gut-curdlingthwack.

“For fuck’s sake,” I growl. Not only do I lack imagination, but apparently, I don’t have hand-eye coordination either. I’ve hit the bloody fourth bone as well.

“Fuck you!” Matthew howls, trying to hit me with his left arm. It’s an amusing sight since the chef’s knife in his wrist is effectively nailing his hand to the floor.

“Such vile words, Mr. Collins.”

There are eight bones in the human wrist, tightly bunched together to make it nearly impossible to break individually.

I hit it three times for good measure.

Three.

The perfect number.

Three phalanges in each finger.

The triad. The Trinity. Body, soul, and spirit. Past, present, and future. Beginning, middle, and end. Art, science, and religion. Heaven, hell, and purgatory. Birth, life, and death. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Hands, head, heart.

Unfortunately, men are made with only two hands. If there were three, this process would be as perfect as the number.

No matter. Sacrifices must be made.

Moving to his left hand, I make my way through the fingers and stop at the one with the golden band. It’s hideously bruised and mangled.

It’ll do.

I hum beneath my breath as I rummage around my leather pouch for the correct chisel. This is what it feels like to be in my element. Just me, my tools, and a canvas ready for me to unleash whatever I desire.

No cotton canvas has stirred such a feeling from me in years, the way living flesh does. Killing has been the only art that proves I’m not an utter failure. There are no critics here—no rules.

I angle the cutting edge of the chisel in the small space where his finger bone meets the knuckle, directly beneath the webbing. With a single blow, the chisel slices through the skin, tears through ligament, nerves, tendons, and muscle, cleanly severing the finger.

There’s something so satisfying about seeing blood sputter. Like watching paint mix. It pools onto the carpet, soaks the woolen threads, and seeps into the floorboards.

“You’re a fucking psychopath!”

“I assure you, I feel plenty.” Rage, exhaustion, irritation, boredom. The occasional curiosity.

I purse my lips, holding up the severed finger, admiring the thickness of the phalanges. Three little bones. The possibilities are endless. I couldgrind it up like usual. Or carve it into a small design. Jewelry, perhaps. However will I choose?

The finger gets carefully placed into a cloth and neatly folded for safekeeping. Then I grab another trusted instrument: a knife.

An artist doesn’t need tools to create, but one sharpened just right can make a world of difference.

The steel glints under the light, and Matthew’s eyes widen. He thrashes, dislodging the knife from the floor, wailing, blubbering, and snotting up a storm. I roll my eyes. He’s trapped by the limitations of his own body.

The tip of the blade dips into his skin. “Confess. Last chance.” Warm spit hits my cheek. Slowly, I wipe it away and lock eyes with him. “Thank you for deciding for me. Your tonguedoeshave to go.”

I see the moment my words register in his puny brain. But it’s too late for him to do anything. I’m prying his mouth open before he can say his goodbyes to the organ.

He screams.

Well, he tries to.

They all try to scream. It’s amusing, if you ask me. They always end up choking on blood or their own tongue. It makes for messy work, but it’s a necessary evil.