The Broken & The Punisher

Chapter 6. "What do you want?"

Mary's head pounded as she slowly gained consciousness and a bright light seeped through her closed eyelids. She felt that her shirt had ridden up, and her exposed flesh lay against something cold, like cold metal. She found it strange, but no real urgency filtered into her sleepy state until she tried to move her hands to shield her eyes from the light. But something restricted them.

Her eyes shot open and she came to complete consciousness with a sense of alertness, with a burst of adrenaline. The memory from last night, or at least what she assumed was last night, came rushing back to her in a wave of panic.

'The man.' She recalled the man. He had come to rob her, but she had stopped him… or not. Her head rolled from side to side, taking in the unfamiliar walls and objects around her.

"This isn’t my home. I am not in my home." Panic filled her every word. 'Oh God!.' She gasped.

“Helllp!” she shrieked, thrashing against the binds. She didn’t look, but she figured it was a rope from the way the rough material dug into the skin of her wrists and ankles until she bled. She felt no pain only panic. Only aware of the wetness of her blood which was starting to blot her porcelain skin. Adrenaline made her arms and legs numb. Air sawed in and out of her lungs too fast. 'This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.'

'I am not in my home.' She shrieked again and thrashed more, clenching her eyes shut and imagining herself in her bed, safe and sound. 'Not here. Not here.' Panicked breaths rushed between her lips, and she forced herself to still. Dizziness enveloped her, and she made the metal table. She lay on rock from side to side, occasionally flipping all the way around as if she was on some carnival ride. No food was in her stomach for her to vomit, but that didn’t stop the nausea from coming.

“G-George Washington.” she forced a deep inhale, filling her shrunken lungs. “John Adams, Thomas Jefferson.” A beep followed by a loud creaking broke through her thoughts, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. “James Madison, James Monroe, John Quincy Adams…” she went on, and on. The bright light dimmed and then brightened as if something momentarily blocked it. Or someone.

Her muscles began to feel as if they had melted into the table as she relaxed about halfway through the list, but she kept going. Until she got to Donald J. Trump.

She took a deep breath before opening her eyes and peering at the man from last night. He stood propped against a counter, arms folded over one another as he studied her.

She trained her gaze on the blue sling his arm was in and felt a flicker of pride, registering that she had indeed hit him hard before the anxiety returned.

He didn’t speak. He seemed to be waiting for her to say the first word, but she refused. Instead, she chose to study him back.

It was definitely a new day. He looked refreshed in a suit instead of that God-awful black sweater, and he wasn’t wearing the ballcap, so this time she could see his full head of blond hair pushed back from his face. She had noticed he was handsome last night, but he appeared even more so under the fluorescent lights of whatever that place was. He had a faint smile on his face, and a glint in his eyes.

His crazy was showing.

“You’ve been out for some time,” he said. “My apologies, Rose. I got a bit carried away with the chloroform.”

"Rose?." She grunted. "What is the point in that? To scare me?" She thought and took another look around the room and tried to deduce what this was about. "Money, right?" The more she examined the room, the less sure she was of the man’s motives. He hadn’t demanded anything of her yet, but he seemed to be waiting for something.

“Mistakes happen.” Her chest rose and fell as a new panic emerged. She closed her eyes and willed it away. “But I would like to go home now, please.”

She didn’t expect him to let her go, but a piece of her still clung on to the hope that he might be after her dead husband’s money. He could have it all. She just needed to be home. Every minute she registered the unfamiliar space around her, the itch beneath her skin intensified.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He let his good arm fall to his side and stepped up to the table. The cool palm of his hand brushed the hair back over her forehead. It was intimate—as if he were admiring a lover—but no life showed in his eyes. He was in a frenzy, a trance she couldn’t begin to know how to snap him out of.

'This wasn’t about money.' That was clear to her and one more thing that she was of this one thing.

“What do you want?” She asked through her teeth knowing well she wasn't going to like his answer.

He smiled before leaving her to retrieve a rubber apron from a hook in the wall. He carefully draped it over himself as if it were part of some ritual.

“Vengeance,” he stated, simply. He didn’t seem at all like a person after vengeance. He was too calm for that, and she wouldn’t know what he would be avenging even if there was some anger that showed through.

He crossed the room and stared at the counter. She lay too low to see all the objects that rested on top of it, but she didn’t have to wonder for too long. He lifted a scalpel for her to see and ran the tip of his finger down the flat surface.

The way he looked at her, his actions, she realized what he was waiting for… her fear. He wanted to scare her. He wanted her to ask questions, to beg. It was his purpose for using her name and showing her the instrument he had planned to torture her with.

"Vengeance, he said. Did he really believe that?" She doubted it, she guessed he just wanted to confuse her more. Because if that were the case she was to disappoint him, greatly.

“Careful there, Norman, you might cut yourself.” She said concealing her anxiety.

His brow quirked, and he took a step toward her.

She swallowed before the lump could fully form in her throat. Was she afraid? Yeah, a bit. There was a psychopath standing in front of her with a scalpel in his hand, but unfortunately for him, she had already played this game a thousand times before. Maybe he would kill her, perhaps he would keep her in this room for days, take his sweet time with her, r*pe her even. But what he wouldn’t do was get the sick satisfaction of hearing her beg. She was determined.

'Sorry, Norman, you chose the wrong woman.' She shrugged.

“Do you know why you’re here, Rose?” He casually splayed his palms on the table and leaned until he was close enough that she could feel each of his breaths. The scalpel lay flat beneath his hand and was about an inch from her arm. It took every amount of willpower she had not to jerk away.

“No, Norman, but I imagine you’re about to enlighten me.”

“Stop calling me that,” he seethed. He inched his hand closer so that the tip of the blade poked into the sleeve of her nightshirt. It wasn’t enough to cause any pain, but the threat was loud and clear… and also ignored.

“Do I look like her?” she asked, trying to bait him thinking that freaks like that typically had problems with women, right? Ex-girlfriend? Maybe a mother? She was bound to strike a nerve.

His brow creased, but he couldn’t help but bite. “Who?”

She had about a second to decide on which female figure would cut deepest. Might as well go with the theme of the nickname she had chosen for him.

“You know who, Norman.” She smiled mischievously, but it fainted as his smile emerged which was bigger than hers,

“Norman Bates from Psycho, right?” He tapped her nose with the tip of the scalpel and smiled wider as she flinched. “That’s really clever, Rose.”

He stood up straight, twirling the scalpel and made his way back to the counter. He dug an iPod from his pocket and tapped the screen for a few seconds before glancing over at her. “I suggest you start considering why you’re here and all the people you’ve wronged. We’ll go as long as it takes.”

...

to be continued