Chapter 2 || Playtime 

I blew out a tired huff as I heaved Nicholas Salazar's heavy body across the shop into the waiting area where the bolted stool had been set up by the deceased owner. Plus, my face feels hot and itchy, I wanted to yank the scratchy cloth off my face and hurl it on the nearest bin.

Why did I ever think that it was a brilliant idea to wear a swatch of cloth from my father's blood-soaked shirt whenever I'm on a mission to rid the world of its number one pollutant? 

Oh, right! Because the simple cloth, now coiled in my head gives me an identity.

When I decided to avenge Mr. Lockhart's death it doesn't cross my mind the level of dedication I have to put on just so I could top his executioners’ handy work.

It's a competition nobody knows, a competition I had set for myself to make myself feel good and see satisfaction whenever I stare at myself in the mirror. Maybe then I could call myself an artist. Perhaps, after graduation, I'd publish a book with the title ‘The Art of Torture’ or something along that line.

The thought of school and torture immediately brought me back to the past.

I remember seeing a show on TV with children my age who were sent by their parents to school with hugs and kisses. That time, I had been hopeful so I brave myself and asked my father if I could go to school. I can't forget how his handsome face contorted into an ugly snarl as he gripped my shoulder, dragging me into his torture chamber; the basement. Then he lovingly informed me between beatings that pain teaches a lot more than the teachers in schools.

As a child, I did not understand what he meant by it. I did not understand why would he rather beat his only child onto the brink of death than send me to a boarding school away from his sight.

But as I grew up I finally understand that I practically killed my own mother just by having me.

He needs someone to blame. Someone who could ease the pain of losing someone he really love. So growing up I learned to accept his beatings with open arms. Happy that maybe, just maybe I could ease the pain I have caused him.

So I endure all the pain and his hateful words.

Every day, even in so much pain, I'm thankful that I am still alive. Though I felt numb at times and broken inside, I am still breathing. It means that I survive. Pain means living. I am a survivor. And that I am stronger than I thought I am.

As my brain reach the period of maturity, whenever my father beat me, my mind would start to wander to a life without him. If he's dead, he would be free from the pain of losing my mother and I would finally live a life free from his beatings.

It's a win-win.

I remember the feeling of adrenaline pumping through my veins when I decided to do it. So while he was on his usual drunk self. I snuck on his workshop and stole his most prize position— a retractable scythe. Fancy, since my father was a mechanical prodigy and we’re practically sky-high rich, living in a mansion secluded from the public’s prying eyes. So after snuck back upstairs into his room I did what I believe was right. What he thought was right.

And I did it with a smile on my face.

He's my first.

Those memories from nine years ago brought a genuine smile to my face. I raise my head on the ceiling, a smile curved on my face as I sent a silent thanks to my father for teaching me everything I need to know. 

He's right, pain teaches a lot more than you could ever learn from school.

The moment I hit the street at the age of nine, I already know not to trust anyone, that emotions make you vulnerable and there's no such thing as free.

Or love.

I tied Nicholas Salazar on a bolted stool on the far corner of the room but not far enough for him not to see a magnificent show before death claimed him.

One more and the show would start soon.

I drag Antonio Lewis on the butcher table, securing his hands and feet with a metal wire, making it extra tight as I gave it a hard tug so the wire would dig to his skin.

This was easier than I thought it would be. Well, I’ll just make the most of it. Thankful that the place was airtight and soundproof or things would be messy with those nosey police officers sticking their noses where it shouldn’t be.

Well, not yet anyway.

I'm just thankful I discovered early on my revenge plan the wonder of using sleeping gas, it made the work much less hassle and chaotic.

I secured the two Salazar brothers opposite from each other on bolted chairs making sure the metal wire I used dug into their flesh giving them more reason not to move or they would cut their hands.

Not that I cared anyway but whatever.

I made a shuddering sound as I glaze on the three unconscious men, now tied on different nooks of the shop.

“Now, now what do we have here.” I sneered as Caleb Salazar groaned and wheezed as he slowly lifts his head a frown etched on his face.

I smile at him before wiping it off as I realize that he couldn't see my face.

“Who are you?” Rage is now visible as his body tenses after a few moments of trying to collect his bearings.

“A beautiful nightmare you won’t be escaping from.” I chirped as I dramatically removed the hood I’d been wearing before stepping a couple of feet in front of him.

Taken aback, his face visibly pale after realizing who I am.

“Surprise!”

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