How could I let myself be talked into this? I don’t… I don’t know what… My mind is going fuzzy. Blood loss, likely. Or the sedatives. Claire is laughing. How can she laugh? My leg is nearly ready she tells me. There is a light mist of smoke coming from the oven.
“I’m so very proud of you,” she says, opening the oven door and removing the tray on which my limb now sits, browned by heat and seasoned with herbs.
This is my fault. It’s all my fault. I’d heard the warnings. I knew the drink tasted funny. I knew there was something wrong with her. But she is so pretty. So very pretty.
Now she’s slicing a piece from my thigh with a steak-knife. She’s so beautiful. And yet, look… Look at what she’s capable of…
My hands! My hands are tied behind the chair. I hadn’t even noticed. And there are chains around my ankles. I’m screwed. Helpless. Completely.
She’s eating a forkful.
“Older men are always chewier,” she giggles, as though this is a joke. I don’t think it is one.
“I’m going to end your life in a few minutes, Derek” she says calmly, chewing. “I don’t know if you’re religious or anything. If you are, that’ll give you a chance to say a prayer or something. I do have a heart. Really. Despite everything you must be feeling. I’m not a bad person. I’m just different. It’s good to be different.”
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