The Death Sculptor полностью

‘For example,’ the artist continued. ‘I know where you live. I know about your awful marriage all those years back. I know where your son goes to college. I know where you go when you want to let off some steam. I know what you like when it comes to sex, and all the places you go to get it. The dirtier the better, isn’t that right?’

Littlewood coughed again. Spit dribbled down his chin.

‘But best of all . . . I know what you did.’ Pure anger found its way into the artist’s voice.

‘I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The artist took a step to the left and the light from the pedestal lamp reflected on something that’d been laid out on Littlewood’s desk. Littlewood couldn’t make out what it was, but he realized that there were several metal objects lying there. Shuddering fear traveled through every inch of his body.

‘It’s OK. I will remind you as the night goes on.’ An irreverent chuckle. ‘And for you, it will be a long, long night.’ The artist grabbed two objects from the desk and approached Littlewood.

‘Wait. What’s your name? Could I have some water, please?’

The artist stopped directly in front of Littlewood and chuckled sarcastically. ‘What, you want to try your psychology crap with me? What would that be? Let’s see . . . ah yes . . . Appeal to the assailant’s human side by asking for the simplest of things, like water, or going to the bathroom. Sympathy for those in need is a natural sentiment to most human beings. You want to call me by my name? Who knows, maybe I’ll call you by yours – which would humanize the victim in the eyes of the assailant, transposing the victim from a simple victim to a person, a human being, someone with a name, with feelings, with a heart. Someone who the assailant could maybe identify with. Someone who, outside the given situation, could be just the same as the assailant, with friends, and family, and everyday problems.’ A new chuckle. ‘Appeal to their human nature, right? It’s supposedly harder for people to hurt someone they know. So try to strike a conversation. Even a simple one can have a massive effect on the assailant’s psyche.’

Littlewood looked up with horror in his eyes.

‘That’s right. I read the same books as you did. I know hostage-situation psychology as well. Are you sure you want to try your bullshit with me?’

Littlewood swallowed dry.

‘The building is empty. We’ve got until tomorrow morning before anyone even walks past your door. Maybe we can chat while I work, what do you say? Want to give it a try? Maybe spark some sympathy inside me?’

Tears filled Littlewood’s eyes.

‘I say let’s make a start.’

Without any more warnings, the artist pinched and twisted Littlewood’s exposed nipple with a pair of metallic medical forceps, pulling it away from his body so hard that the skin almost ruptured right there and then.

Littlewood let out an agonized cry. He felt vomit starting to rise up in his throat again.

‘I really hope you don’t mind pain. This knife isn’t very sharp.’ The other instrument the artist had retrieved from the desk was a small, serrated knife. It looked old and blunt.

‘Feel free to scream if this hurts.’

‘Oh God, pl . . . , pl . . . , please, don’t do this. I beg you. I . . .’

Littlewood’s next words were abruptly substituted by a soul-chilling scream as the artist slowly started sawing off his nipple.

Littlewood almost passed out. His mind was struggling with everything. He desperately wanted to believe that whatever was happening to him wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had to be inside the absurd world of some crazy dream. It was the only logical explanation. But the pain that shot up from his blood-and-vomit-soaked chest was very real.

The artist put down the blunt knife and watched Littlewood bleed for a while, waiting for him to catch his breath, to regain some of his strength.

‘As much as I’ve enjoyed that,’ the artist finally said, ‘I think I want to try something different now. This might hurt more.’

Those words sent Littlewood tumbling down a rabbit hole of such intense fear that his whole body tensed. He felt the muscles of his arms and legs cramp so hard it paralyzed him.

The artist moved closer.