The Icer's Revenge

She screams in pained agony, her torture master grinning and looking on. He looks at the finger now lying on the floor, satisfied she has no more. She shouldn't have betrayed him, taken another client. He paid her extremely well for the little he required of her.

"Myra, Myra, Myra" He chastises, "that pretty little head of yours has gotten you in trouble again. Maybe I should just slice that greedy brain out of your thick skull."

As he speaks, he trails the knife up from her hand to her throat, then to the top of her head. He gazes at her indifferent, feeling no remorse, because Myra had chosen her own fate. His only feeling is that of his empending revenge, for nobody crosses The Icer and gets away scott-free.

"Please don't do this. Please. You don't want to do this, please don't." Myra is reduced to begging.

The Icer looks at her hands, taking pleasure in seeing the raw, bloody stumps where her fingers should have been. He tracks the blood's progress with his eyes, dripping slowly down into the containers that hols her severed fingers. "It looks like bloody soup," he says gleefully, taunting her mentally. He takes his time to answer her, letting the fearful anticipation build.

"Are you honestly trying to convince me not to torture you before I kill you? Darling, thats all the fun of it." He grins evilly, looking on the saw on the metallic gray tray by his side.

She starts to beg, unable to control the shuddering, bone-wracking sobs held in her chest any longer. She screams her denial, cursing the gods and the univerce. Her hands, whats left of them at least, ache and throb. Pin pricks jolt up and down her body, sending pain darting to every working fiber of her being.

He listens to her screams and feels peaceful, the wails and curses drowning out the demons from his past. He sits on a red low-slung stool and places a container under one of her feet. He picks up the hand saw, then slowly, deliberately starts his work. As he feels the bone and sinew crush under the saw, smells the coppery blood as it starts to coat his hands and drip into the container, he thinks about his childhood. Screams lull his senses.

Mommy walks into the attic, a Virginia Slim clenched between her teeth. His eyes quickly travel to her hand, seeing fearfully the long, slender whip clenched in her fist. Mommy comes forward, walking slowly, effectively backing him into a corner. He turns and covers as much of himself with his arms as possible, barely getting them up in time for the first strike to land. Blows rain upon his body, leeching his ability to breathe, sapping his strength inexorably.

He huddles against the wall, trying to shrink into himself; to escape the living hell his Mommy wreaks upon him. He lays on his stomach, barely able to lift a finger, and hears her leave. The door clanks shut and black begins to mar his vision. He hears the door open again as he sinks into the bliss of oblivion. He wakes to his step fathers heavy breathing in his ear and a terrible pain in his bottom...

As the screams quiet, he drifts back into awareness of the task at hand. Feeling the scars on his body throb, and the shame of what his step father did, he saws harder, grinding through the bone and hoping she feels every bit of it. He looks up, then feels fury beckon him to its lair. The screams stopped because Myra was once again unconcious. Having hoped she wouldn't do the same as she had with her fingers for the toes, he's disappointed.

He reches for the bucket, then picks it up and drips sulfaric acid down her face. As the flesh dissolves into thing air, she jerks and tries to scream, but no sound comes out. Amused by this turn of events, he drips a bit more on her shoulder before setting the bucket back down. He walks over to the cot in his room and lays down. Itrs only fun when they scream; she needs to regain her voice.

He sleeps a few hours, then gets up to look at her, sleeping or unconcious from the excrutiating pain, one of the other he's sure. He decides to speed along the recovery of her voice, so he gets some water. Walking to her, he takes a fork and stabs the tines into the bloody stumps where her fingers once resided. She wakes up and gives a hoarse, rather pitiful, scream. He shows her the water.

Her eyes get real wide and she lurches forward involuntarily, her thick, swollen tongue and parched throat crying out for liquid. She refuses to open her mouth though, scared he's just toying with her and wants to rip her tongue out, or worse. He presses the top to her lips after unscrewing the cap, but she won't open up so the water slips down her shirt to her waist.

Finally, dehydration forces her to open up and drink the water, cool and refreshing.

"You have to be ablt to sceam my dear...for now at least." His rich, melodious voice fills her senses, but what she should have found soothing, she found nothing but pure, vivid evil and malicious glee. The crazy, wild look in his eye scared her just as bad. He lets a sall, steady stream continue to flow into her mouth and down her throat. Swallowing quickly, greddily, she eyes him distrustfully, and he notices, just as he notices the fear.

"You are right to fear me. I payed you more than enough as my private investigator to give me solid, factual information about Jacob. So how'd he do it? I admit to being rather curious. Did he pay more? Was he your lover perhaps? Tell me, why did you betray me to him?"

She struggles against the chains on her feet and wrists, wishing he'd let her out of answering, knowing he won't, knowing his cruelty when crossed, but still unwilling to answer, she decides to lie. She looks at him intently, raw anguish a veil over her eyes. She gives a mocking smiles, unable to admit fear or defeat. She licks her dry, chapped lips, then answers.

"None of those. Surely your smart enough to figure it out on your own."

"Have no doubt I am, little girl. Perhaps I simply want to hear it from your lips." As he answers, he turns his only eye upon her, assessing the probability of her telling the truth. When she first started working for him, he caught her staring at his eye. He explained he was called "The Icer" because his eye remained as cold and unattatched as ice. She had smiled and walked away, secretely agreeing with the nickname.

"You didn't consider the possibility I thought you a repulsive bastard though."

His hand whips out lightning fast, cracking across her face like gunfire.

"You lying, undiscipined bitch," He shrieks.

Fury makes his face a mottled red, while the skin grows taut. He quickly regains control, aggravated at his weakness. The Icer circles Myra, slowly, relentless in his pursuit for answers. She feels the now familiar fear build inside her, but shoves it down. The more scared she becomes the harder her pulse races. The harder ger pulse races, the more her injuries will pump out her life force; her blood.

He stops in front of her again, watching apathetically as she grimaces when he reaches out to her hand pointedly. Surpressed fear makes her eyes wide, even though she is trying to put on a facade of false bravado. He sees through it and feels the familiar tingle of happiness he's always gotten hurting, scaring, and humiliating women.

As he gazes upon the once beautiful woman, he takes pleasure that now she simply looks a mangled mess. He grabs a spoon from the hated metallic tray then dips it into the container with her blood. He holds the spoon to her mouth and forces it inside. She clenches her teeth, trying to keep from consuming her own coppery tanged blood. He refuses to allow her even one small victory. He grabs the pressure joints in her haw and squeezes, forcing her mouth open. He decides as punishment for defying him, he is going to put her fingers in her mouth. He lets go of her jaw, then bends down and picks up the two containers with five fingers in each.

"Disobediance is not an option Myra. Your punishments will alwayys be swidr, bur not always...physically abusive. You see, I've let a few of my victims go. Of course, the mental psyche being ravaged over and over again easily makes them go crazy. Thye never remember a thing about me, only the punishments. Do you understand what I'm saying Myra?"

She nods her head, then, at his glower, opens her mouth ot speak. Before she can utter a word or close her mouth, he shoves her two index fingers in and gives a simple command.

"Clean them."

Her eyes go wide and she tries to force them out with her tongue, but his arm strength gives her no chance in hell. He looks at her calmly, as if gauging her reaction. After a few moments she gives up trying to get them out and cleans them with her tongue, gagging every few moments or so. They both repeat the process until they are all cleaned to his satisfaction. He made her pay special attention to where he had cut them off, He sits down on his red stool and picks up red sewing thread and a small needle. He holds them up and shows Myra, all the while alternately grinning evilly and humming a slow melody.