Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
His throat works as if he’s trying to gasp for air or speak, but only scratchy, pathetic sounds escape.
“If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away.” I lean in close, my tone soft and almost reverent. “That’s the quote. People don’t talk about it enough.”
Gage’s eyes bug out. Poor guy. He must sense where I’m going with this.
“Everyone says Jesus was being hyperbolic, but he said it twice. I think he meant it—avoid sin at all costs. All costs. Not commit your sins, pretend to ask for forgiveness, then do it all over again.”
His face really is turning purple now. Not much longer.
“You know, it reminds me of men who blame women for ‘dressing provocatively’ when they rape them. Like, what kind of bullshit is that? What’s the excuse when it’s a child, huh?” I slap his cheek. “I’m actually asking here. What was Hoyt wearing that got you so worked up, you sick fucker? His Optimus Prime T-shirt? Or maybe it was his kind smile. The way he’d wave hello to you in the morning when we passed your house?” My voice cracks but I continue, “We all would’ve been better off if you’d plucked out your own damn eyes. Better to enter heaven with no eyes than to sin.”
He thrashes, arms clawing at the rope.
I snort with laughter. “It’s not my place to judge, but I’m pretty sure if there’s a hell, that’s where you’re headed.”
Grabbing his head with one hand and holding him steady, I slowly sink my thumb into his eye socket. The soft, squishy tissue gives way easier than you’d expect. “It’s fitting that you were watching that homemade filth when I got here—I’m going to leave the television on, so the cops get a good look at what you were up to.” I probe and wiggle until there’s a wet, sickening pop and the eyeball comes free, still connected by nerves and tissue.
Thin, reedy, airless screams tear from Gade’s throat and his body sways from side to side, still tethered by the rope.
I flick my gaze to where the rope’s tied to the nail. The knot slides against the long, shiny metal but seems to be holding. All good.
Before I lose my nerve, I slice the blade of the scalpel through the connective tissue all around the eyeball. Gade’s head jerks once, then slumps forward, the rope still holding his dead weight.
I pop the eyeball in my little jar, secure the lid, and carefully wipe the blood on my scalpel off on a clean corner of Gade’s shirt.
My gloves are messy, and I carefully roll them off, turning them inside out as I do. I drop them in my open backpack and pull a new pair from a separate front pocket.
Exhausted but numb, I stand and stagger toward the boxes of photographs. Grabbing the one with the loose top, I dump the photos around Mr. Gade’s lifeless body, still suspended by the rope. Thankfully, many of the photos land face-down. But far too many assault my eyes.
Tears burn my lids, blurring the horrors in front of me. So many different children. Too many. Some have adults in the photos, too. I doubt these are all Gade’s victims. Probably photos he traded for or bought from other creeps. I can’t look at them too closely or I’ll break down.
I still have so much to do.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images are forever seared into my brain.
I should’ve taken both of his eyes.
Will the cops ever be able to piece together who these children are and where the photos came from?
Slower now, I grab a pair of snips from my backpack and cut the zip ties from Gade’s wrists and ankles, then stuff them in my pocket.
Blood from his eye socket drips and hits the wood floor with a soft splat, splat, splat.
Bile sizzles through my stomach but I can’t afford to get sick here.
Vigilante justice might sound romantic, but the reality is bloody disgusting. The stench in the tiny hidden room revolting.
I grew up in a funeral home. I’ve seen more dead bodies than I can count, made it through mortuary school, and dealt with every kind of death imaginable. There aren’t many smells I can’t handle. But prepping a body is sterile and detached. Compassionate even.
What happened here is visceral. Messy.
I step out of the small door, leaving it open. The musky bedroom air is a welcome relief. Should I close the door? The longer the body decomposes, the better for me. But the sooner the police find those videos and photos, the sooner they can try to find those children.
I leave the hidden door as it is. And I leave the closet door wide open.
Part of me is shocked and sickened by what I’ve done. The other part hoists my backpack over my shoulders and carefully retraces my steps, checking the house for anything I might have left behind. Hopefully, I’ve left no trace. But I’ve always known this was a gamble. All it takes is one footprint or hair I missed, and everything could unravel.