cleaver.
The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.
Hair. Long, pink hair.
Moni screams.
Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who’s been missing for a week.
Street talk was she’d gone straight, quit the life.
Street talk was wrong.
Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.
The twine doesn’t budge.
Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.
Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her. Sticky brown stains that smell like meat gone bad.
Charlene’s blood.
Moni’s breath catches. Her gaze drifts to the table again, even though she doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see what this freak is going to use on her.
“I’m dead,” she thinks. “And it’s gonna be bad.”
Moni doesn’t like herself. Hasn’t for a while. It’s tough to find self-respect when one does the things she does for money. But even though she ruined her life with drugs, even though she hates the twenty-dollar-a-pop whore she’s become, Moni doesn’t want to die.
Not yet.
And not like this.
Moni closes her eyes. She breathes in. Breathes out. Wills her muscles to relax.
“I hope you didn’t pass out.”
Every muscle in Moni’s body contracts in shock. The freak is looking down at her, smiling.
He’d been standing right behind Moni the whole time. Out of her line of sight.
“Please let me go.”
His laugh is an evil thing. She knows, looking at his eyes, he won’t cut her free until her heart has stopped.
“Keep begging. I like it. I like the begging almost as much as I like the screaming.”
He walks around her, over to the table. Takes his time fondling his tools.
“What should we start with? I’ll let you pick.”
Moni doesn’t answer. She thinks back to when she was a child, before all of the bad stuff in her life happened, before hope was just another four-letter word. She remembers the little girl she used to be, bright and full of energy, wanting to grow up and be a lawyer like all of those fancy-dressed women on TV.
“If I get through this,” Moni promises God, “I’ll quit the street and go back to school. I swear.”
“Are you praying?” The freak grins. He’s got the blowtorch in his hand. “God doesn’t answer prayers here.”
He fiddles with the camcorder, then kneels between her open legs. The torch ignites with the strike of a match. It’s the shape of a small fire extinguisher. The blue flame shooting from the nozzle hisses like a leaky tire.
“I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it smells delicious. Just like cooking bacon.”
Moni wonders how she can possibly brace herself for the oncoming pain, and realizes that she can’t. There’s nothing she can do. All of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, have led up to this sick final moment in her life, being burned alive in some psycho’s basement.
She clenches her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut.
A bell chimes.
“Dammit.”
The freak pauses, the flame a foot away from her thighs.
The bell chimes again. A doorbell, coming from upstairs.
Moni begins to cry out, but he guesses her intent, bringing his fist down hard onto her face.
Moni sees blurry motes, tastes blood. A moment later he’s shoving something in her mouth. Her halter top, wedging it in so far it sticks to the back of her throat.
“Be right back, bitch. The FedEx guy is bringing me something for you.”
The freak walks off, up the stairs, out of sight.
Moni tries to scream, choking on the cloth. She shakes and pulls and bucks but there’s no release from the twine and the gag won’t come out and any second he’ll be coming back down the stairs to use that awful blowtorch…
The blowtorch.
Moni stops struggling. Listens for the hissing sound.
It’s behind her.
She twists, cranes her neck around, sees the torch sitting on the floor only a few inches from her head.
It’s still on.
Moni scoots her body toward it. Strains against the ropes. Stretches her limbs to the limit.
The top of her head touches the steel canister.
Moni’s unsure of how much time she has, unsure if this will work, knowing she has less than a one-in-a-zillion chance but she has to try something and maybe dear god just maybe this will work.
She cocks her head back and snaps it against the blowtorch. The torch teeters, falls onto its side, and begins a slow, agonizing roll over to her right hand.
“Please,” Moni begs the universe. “Please.”
The torch rolls close—too close—the flame brushing Moni’s arm and the horrible heat singeing hair and burning skin.
Moni screams into her gag, jerks her elbow, tries to force the searing flame closer to the rope.
The pain blinds her, takes her to a place beyond sensation, where her only thought, her only goal, is to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP!
Her arm is suddenly loose.
Moni grabs the blowtorch, ignoring the burning twine that’s still wrapped tightly around her wrist. She points the flame at her left hand, severs the rope. Then her feet.
She’s free!
No time to dress. No time to hide. Up the stairs, two at a time, ready to dive out of a window naked and screaming and—
“What the hell?”
The freak is at the top of the stairs, pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife out of a cardboard box. He notices Moni and confusion registers on his face.
It quickly morphs into rage.
Moni doesn’t hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak’s head, and then he’s falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.
Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob…
And pauses.
The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.
There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.
Girls like Charlene.
Cops don’t help whores. Cops don’t care.
But Moni does.
Next to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.
Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.
