Thanksgiving AU: The Most Dangerous Main Course WHO: Emma and Marcus; mention of Eden. WHEN: Non-specific; Sometime in November. WHERE: Emma's house. WHAT: Emma makes a delicious stew. WARNING: Torture ensues, and death is inevitable. Cannibalism. This shouldn't surprise anyone.
The room she’d restrained him in looked nothing like the rest of the house. The rest of the house looked like something out of Better Homes and Garden. The basement, however, was an absolute wreck. Things were tossed haphazardly around the room and nothing seemed to have a pattern. There was newly replaced plastic sheeting covering the walls, as evident by remnants of older, stained sheeting embracing the nails that held it. It didn’t seem to do much good as the walls still appeared to be covered in dried blood.
He would find there was no one else in the room at the moment, though the muffled sounds from the floor above indicated that there was someone else in the residence. Or the television had been left on.
Emma was seated in the kitchen reading the newspaper. She’d turned on the radio for background noise. It kept the creeping silence, and excitement welling in her chest, at bay. She loosely clutched a cigarette in her right hand. It had burned about an inch since her last drag. Either she hadn’t been interested in the smoking of it, or the story she was reading proved more intriguing. Before the ashes escaped to ruin the pristine shine of her coffee table, she tapped it into the ashtray. She couldn’t care less what the newspaper had to say; it was all political crap.
What she was doing was listening. She was waiting for Marcus to regain consciousness. The bartender had, under her direction, laced his drinks with tranquilizers. She wasn’t quite sure the dosage. It was more than enough to knock the hulk of a man out, but not enough to kill him. She expected that he wasn’t going to be too happy when he woke up.
---
At first it was as if a lead curtain had settled over him in the night. Something heavy, making it hard to breathe, impossible to move... he could barely form a thought. It wasn't just a hangover, that was certain. Marcus was had experienced too many hangovers. He knew the subtle differences between the hangovers caused by various brands of alcohol, let alone types, so he knew this wasn't that. He felt like he was coming out of anesthesia. Some heavy benzos, maybe? He didn't usually truck with that shit. Alcohol was strictly his drug of choice. His body was a temple, otherwise. He didn't smoke. He didn't do hard drugs. Fuck, he didn't even like to take pills when they were prescribed to him. However, he'd been in and out of hospitals as more than just an employee. The aftermath of heavy-duty painkillers, muscle relaxers, and anesthesia weren't unfamiliar to him. Had he been in an a fucking accident? Not terribly unlikely. Wouldn't be the first time for that, either. Driving drunk was stupid, but couldn’t always be fucking avoided. Marcus didn’t like to let other people drive his car.
Once his vision cleared, it became obvious he was not actually in a hospital. The inability to move also wasn’t just the result of whatever drugs he’d taken, either; Marcus was actually strapped down. That couldn’t be right. He groaned, expressing his initial consternation with a very succinct, “The fuck?” and then tried pull against the restraints. Although well-meaning, his muscles were ineffective. Weak. In a match against himself and gravity at that moment, Marcus would have put even money on his ending up on the floor. That had to be some kind of drug. Something involving a muscle relaxer. Flunitrazepam? Shit.
At least he had clothes on. In a trashed room covered in plastic, strapped down to some kind of gurney or slab, whether or not he was still dressed was hardly relevant. Still, there was comfort to be found in the fact that he wasn’t naked, as cold as that comfort might be. It meant that he could walk out of there, once he figured out how to get loose, and dealt with situation, whatever that was. Stained walls and plastic didn’t exactly suggest a joke, but it was so surreal... like the set of a haunted house. His mind wasn’t about to process the implications, just yet.
--
One last drag and the cigarette was done. She snuffed it out on the tray and paused to listen to the radio. Some advertisement for something she didn't care about. Well, that’s enough of that. Emma stood now, folding the paper and setting it on the table before making her way to shut the damned thing off. She hadn't heard Marcus through the closed door, but she decided that it might be a good idea to check that her guest wasn't dead yet. That'd be terribly dull. She frowned a bit, but it faded by the time she made it to the door.
It gave a slow, drawn out creak as she let it swing open. It had scared the wits out of the lady she'd had down here the week prior. It was a pity to see her die. She was pretty, and had some decent fight in her. Had some money, or at least knew someone with money. She'd been well dressed, and took care of herself. That was one thing Emma always insisted on. Her guests couldn't be slobs. That was one thing she'd liked about Marcus. It was evident that he took care of himself, took pride in his looks and the state of his body. It made him the perfect target.
She was at the base of the stairs now, a good ten feet or so from where he lay, peering through the plastic sheeting. "Oh good, you’re awake." Excitement laced her voice, and her eyes gleamed with anticipation. This was going to be fun. Well...at least for her it was.
--
The setting would have suited a large man, possibly with a butcher’s apron or some kind of mask on. At least, if it had been a haunted house, or some kind of movie stage. Not a pale, young woman who looked incapable of throwing a punch. She also seemed entirely too happy to see him. Strapped down in a room that was obviously designed to scare the fuck out of people, Marcus would have suspected someone with at least a modicum of anger in their expression. He tried to keep his own neutral. Without even knowing what game was being played yet, he had no idea what hand to show. The residual effects of the drug helped with that. Everything was still hazy, like a fever dream. He hadn’t recovered enough energy to properly freak out.
When he attempted to move against the straps again, he acted as though he were noticing them for the first time, and gave her a hooded plea. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice didn’t come out strangely. It was a bit thick, heavy... the dry-mouth was as bad as he’d thought, but at least he didn’t have any trouble being audible. “You gonna undo this shit, chica? Don’t really mind the bondage thing, but my back is stiff as fuck...”
--
She peeled the plastic sheeting back, moving out of the stairwell and into the room. "'Fraid not," she replied. Her expression fell serious as she came up to his side. "Took a bit to get you situated. I'd hate for all that effort to go to waste." Logic would dictate that she hadn't been working alone, though she didn't seem to acknowledge a possible accomplice.
Her fingers traced the binding on his wrist. She was actually surprised that they were holding. Marcus was by far the biggest, and strongest of her victims. But the thought of him escaping either hadn't crossed her mind, or didn't seem to bother her.
--
Without leverage on his side, Marcus had little chance of snapping leather restraints. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give it his all, however, though that would have been a lot more impressive if he was at full strength, instead of just coming to. He turned his head, trying to look around the room as best he could, but he didn’t see anyone else. That felt wrong, somehow. He flashed his teeth at her in an expression that was far too strained to be an actual grin. “I do something to piss you off or something? Didn’t have to drug me, mamí. Want to play bondage games with me, all you gotta do is fucking ask.”
It was a bit of a leap to assume that she’d been the one to drug him, but Marcus knew he’d been drugged, and since there was nobody else there, she was his only suspect.
--
Emma shook her head and pulled her hand back. "I've got no reason to be angry with you." She moved now to the opposite side of the room. Her gaze locked on Marcus as she rifled for a moment behind that wall of sheeting before producing a tattered leather bag. Bringing it up to rest on something flat, she opened it and began examining the contents.
"They tell girls like me to be careful about unattended drinks," she continued. "But they don't tell you to keep an eye on your bartender." A smirk crept into her features and she looked back to him again. "You've got a bit of a reputation," she paused briefly. "Mr. Caravahlo, is it?" The pronunciation was rough. She'd only heard his name once in her exchange with the angry employee the night before. Most of the exchange had been the bartender ranting about Marcus’ bawdy escapades with his sister. There was no doubting the man had it out for “that damned dirty Mexican”.
--
So it was that. Some kind of hired vengeance? Marcus tried to picture the bartender. Rick? Carl? Vincente? He couldn’t even fucking remember who’d been serving, but it wasn’t unlikely that they had a problem with him. Many did. The only fault with that theory was the mercenary. Marcus was used to packs of male friends and relatives coming at him, but not some little girl. She was absolutely correct in assuming he wasn’t paranoid about people slipping him shit in his drinks. Why would he be? Who would dare? So this was supposed to scare him, get him back for going after someone’s wife or sister or daughter. Fuck that. “Whatever you were told I did, chica, it was fucking mutual. I don’t rape nobody, and I don’t make promises.”
He tested the restraints again as he spoke, at intervals, letting his muscles rest in between attempts with the hope that his strength was coming back. His voice was kept calm. She didn’t sound angry, so he was matching her tone to an extent, not wanting to set her off while he was at a disadvantage. “I’m straight with people, mamí. She knew what she was fucking getting into.”
Or he. There hadn’t been all that many men lately, however, and Marcus assumed that this had to be fairly recent. In general, fucking over a guy didn’t generate elaborate revenge schemes. They’d be hurt, embarrassed, and usually disappear to avoid having to confront it. They certainly wouldn’t rally strangers to the cause. Women were more likely to do that. Although it would be an amusing twist if this was some poor guy’s sister, mad at him for fucking over her brother. If that turned out to be the case, Marcus would be sure to have himself a chuckle over it, once he was back in his apartment alone, re-evaluating his lifestyle.
--
"Like I said," she abandoned the bag for the time being. She decided that her hair was going to be unruly, so she pulled it back. Neatness didn't factor in. It was a really loose, messy ponytail, but it did the job. "I'm not angry with you." And she wasn't. Marcus hadn't done anything to her, or anyone close to her. Marcus was a victim of circumstance. This was strictly a right place, wrong time scenario. There was no method to the way Emma chose her victims. Deciding factor in Marcus' case? He looked delicious.
The house they currently occupied was still technically her parents'. Mark Carter's renovation plans included knocking down a couple of walls in the basement. Instead of the contents of the bag, she'd opted for "Boomer", Mark's trusty sledgehammer. It made a nice scraping sound against the concrete floor as she pulled it up to rest on her shoulder.
She spent a good couple of minutes sizing him up. Determining where the most damage, and the least damage could be done. She wasn't a trained medical professional --though she was apt in basic first aid-- and there were certain things she most definitely couldn't fix once broken. Hearts that stopped beating proved problematic. If CPR didn't work, that was it. End of the line. Time to find a new plaything.
Settling on her next course of action she moved toward him. Taking a spread grip on the sledgehammer, she brought it up, and slammed it down full force on his knee. It was a motion she was used to. She spent a lot of her youth chopping firewood. Her aim was usually dead on, but she normally brandished an axe. There was a margin for error there, so part of her was left hoping that she'd done more than just bruise him. She was trying to fracture his kneecap.
--
“Chinga tu madre! Fuck!” The hit was right on, and had enough force behind it to break the kneecap. A direct blow with plenty of force behind it to fracture the patella was enough to get Marcus’s attention off of past wrongs and posturing. He lurched against the bonds, trying to get up, no longer attempting for the semblance of calm. She’d hit him with a goddamn sledgehammer, which rendered all other concerns irrelevant. “You fucking cunt! Fuck!”
The sharp, sudden onslaught had also apparently rendered his vocabulary rather useless. He probably should have demanded to be let go, perhaps asked why she’d decided to go psychotic on his previously quite functional leg. Instead, however, he just spat, “Fuck,” again, trying to wrap his brain around it. Fuck and fucking cunt about summed it up, though. His energy diverted itself from trying to communicate that to thrashing against the binds. Hitting him with a fucking sledgehammer indicated that the bitch was some kind of psycho, so being able to form a coherent sentence wasn’t exactly top priority.
--
Emma stood in absolute amazement at the reaction, slinging Boomer back onto her shoulder. It wasn't unexpected. It was, in all regards, really fucking natural. But it accomplished what she was planning. It rendered his leg fairly useless. Sure, if he got free, he still had two perfectly good arms. Well, unless she decided to render them useless. But that wasn't the plan just yet.
Well, in all honesty, the only "plan" she really had was the end game. Marcus was going to die. She just wasn't sure how he was going to die. But as long as she remained in control of the situation, it was an inevitable truth.
Amusement crept across her lips again, and she leaned into him. Ensnaring the hair on the back of his head in her free hand, she pulled his head back toward the table. It was a firm tug, but not with the intention of knocking him out. She wanted him conscious.
"Still think I'm playing bondage games with you?"
--
“Fuck you!” Marcus spat at her, eyes rolling to fix on the bitch. He bucked against her hand, snarling and feral, willing to tear his fucking hair out to get away from her grasp. It was an impressive display, but again he had little in the way of leverage, and none of his struggling seemed to be weakening the fucking straps. The pain was still very much present, at the forefront, but adrenaline was also coursing through him. He was in no danger of passing out just yet. “I’ll tear your fucking throat out, you motherfucking cunt!”
Cutesy Spanish pet names seemed to have been dropped. Distressed, Marcus largely cursed and insulted people in English. He was, after all, from Arizona. “You’re fucking dead, bitch!”
--
"Oh, sweetie, this is just the tip of the iceberg," she purred now, loosening his hair after giving it a slight tug once more, and straightening up again. "It's just a matter of figuring out what you can handle and what you can't."
She made her way back over to the bag, setting the sledgehammer back where she'd picked it up from. Hoisting herself up on the deep freezer beside the bag, she pulled her zippo and pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her jacket. She placed the filter in her mouth and with a flick, flame, and plume of smoke, she continued. "You got a few scars on you, so I'm guessing you're used to bleeding."
Motioning at him with the cigarette, and setting the pack and lighter next to her, she went on. "Used to a fight, given your size, and demeanor." She paused to take another drag, and pointed at the interior of the bag. "Got a whole slew of things at my disposal. If you got a preference, now's your chance to let me know. Or I'll just go with whatever I grab....Hell, maybe I'll take out your other knee. Just so your bum one isn't lonely."
Her fingernails had dried blood caked around the cuticles. A little bit under the nails themselves. At an aside glance, from someone at the door perhaps, it might have looked like she'd done a shoddy job at removing nail polish. Her jeans were slightly bloodied as well, mostly the thigh area. The grey jacket looked to be the only thing on her person that was freshly laundered.
--
“Fuck you,” he reiterated, not looking over at her. Let her gloat and go on about it. Bitch got her rocks off terrorizing people? Fine. She could hurt him. He couldn’t stop her from that, and his leg was intensely attesting to that fact. That didn’t mean he had to engage in conversation with her. He focused his attention on the straps, not letting up on them for a second. If he could get so much as an arm free, he’d have a chance. He could very clearly imagine getting a hold of her. Grabbing her by the hair and beating her face against the edge of the table until it was unrecognizable. Pulling her close so he could bite out her throat. The imagery served as a kind of meditative aid, keeping his attention off the ruined knee.
He was used to bleeding. Used to pain, though hadn’t previously experienced the singular, explosive pain of a shattered kneecap. That was admittedly new. He had a high tolerance for it. Tended to waive topical anesthetics whenever he needed to get stitches, that sort of thing. That didn’t mean he cared to test his limits, and who did this psycho bitch think she was? He hadn’t done a fucking thing to her, she’d admitted as much. Once he got an arm free, he’d see if she could handle not having her fucking teeth. In the meantime, he was determined to be angry. Not scared. Despite the pain. Because of the pain.
He’d worked with some crazy motherfuckers before. Whatever her deal was, whatever disorder she had, he knew better than to engage. That would only encourage the bitch.
--
So he was opting for the silent treatment. Fine. As much as she'd have liked him to converse with her, she really didn't need his input. She'd probably just do whatever she felt like anyway. If she let him take control of the situation, that would be a step in the wrong direction.
She stared at him now, rather intently. The gears in her twisted mind turning as she smoked her cigarette. After a moment, she held it with her lips as she dug in the bag again. It was like digging for buried treasure, she wasn't really sure what she was going to get.
This time it was a switchblade, one if the newer additions to the repertoire. It hasn't been used more than twice since she bought it, so it remained very sharp. Sharp and clean. It was time for it to get dirty.
She pushed the bag back off of her lap, snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray situated behind it, and jumped back down to close the distance between them. She pushed the button that loosed the blade and smiled again.
"Let's see," she brought the tip to Marcus' temple. "Shall I hack and slash at random? ...Slit your throat?"
The smile turned to a malicious grin as she drew the blade closer to his eye. "Make it a little harder for you to see what I'm doing to you?" Applying just enough pressure, she let the blade pierce the skin just to the side of his eye, and drug it down his cheek a slight distance. Too close for comfort, but not close enough to cause any damage to the eye itself. The grin hit her gaze as the cut filled with red. He bled quite nicely.
--
“Go afuckinghead,” he growled. Even in pain, he couldn’t maintain silence for very long. It wasn’t really in his nature to not talk. “Can’t fucking stop you. That what you want to hear? Fucking bitch...”
Then the knife was at his eye, and Marcus shut the fuck up again. The destroyed knee was still intensely painful, and that had served to piss him the fuck off. A knife to the eye, however, was legitimately terrifying. Loss of mobility, being unable to use his legs properly, that was something Marcus could handle. In fact, he felt like he could handle a lot of things. He’d been in more than his share of fights and accidents, and wasn’t all that unfamiliar with hospitals from either side of the curtain. Blindness was one of the things he wouldn’t be able to handle. He’d choose any other option first, death included. So when the blade came close - too close - Marcus froze, all of his attention focusing onto that point. The girl might as well not have been in the room; it was as if the entire world had been whittled down to the edge of that fucking knife. Here was a Marcus who wasn’t pissed off, just scared.
---
She would be lying if she said that wasn't what she wanted to hear. But she decided not to say anything. Mister Caravahlo was doing well with the "mind reading". And besides, the gears in her head were still moving. Sick fascination puppeting her and her motives. How uncomfortable could she make him feel? How far could she push him?
Emma's problem was the fact that she wasn't as patient as she'd have liked to have been. Her restraints were doing far better than she had anticipated. Sure, he'd fought against them. And yes, it amused her. Futile efforts at escape thwarted by simple leather strapping and metal? Thrilling! She also got a thrill knowing that if they did give way before she was done with him, that he'd no doubt defend himself. It was an absolute adrenaline rush.
"That's interesting," she finally uttered, furrowing her eyebrows. She was pushing herself to be more assiduous with her victims. Rushing to killing them was getting boring fast. Patience is a virtue. Though she honestly didn't feel very virtuous. Bringing the knife up now to above his eyebrow, she gave that malicious grin again. In one swift motion, she sliced from his brow bone to his cheekbone.
--
As soon as he felt the blade cut skin, Marcus thrashed. He couldn’t help it. The memory of how he’d attained the scar over the opposite eye was all too deeply ingrained in his mind. He’d jerked then, as well, which had been a good thing at that time. Flinching was why he still had an eye on that side of his face, in a way. This time, however, there wasn’t anywhere to go. He couldn’t throw his head backward without hitting the table. The only option was to the side and forward, into the knife. Her careful attempt at making a matching cut was duly botched when Marcus essentially impaled his face on her blade; the eye popping easily like a piece of overripe fruit. Blood from the cut she’d made flowed readily down his face, intermingling with the clear fluids of the impaled eye, as well as the severed blood vessels behind it, and hindered only by the knife itself.
Unsurprisingly, it was at that point that Marcus began to scream.
--
"What the fuck!?" She pulled back now, leaving the knife where it was. Emma had been expecting him to thrash, not skewer his eye. That hadn't gone according to plan. And truth be told, she'd never had to deal with a deflated eyeball. Blood and guts didn't gross her out. Eye fluids? That was something new. And not something she really wanted to deal with right now.
"Good job," she uttered after a moment of gathering herself. The screaming needed to stop. She may have resided on the outskirts of town, but she still had neighbors, and her walls were not sound proof --although that was on her to do list. The last thing she needed was cops at her door. As much as she would have enjoyed torturing him more, it wasn't practical. Even if she could properly gag him --and slow the bleeding so he didn't bleed to death too fast-- there wasn't the guarantee that he couldn't scream again later on.
At that moment, there was only one way she could think of to end his life quickly. Hopefully before anyone could hear him. There was the possibility that someone had heard him when she smashed his kneecap earlier. Picking up the sledgehammer again, she returned to the side of the table. Yep. This had to end now. She had to have time to at least clean herself up. That way, if the authorities showed up, she could play it off. I was just watching a horror movie, officers. Sometimes my surround sound gets louder than I anticipate. I'll turn it down.
--
It would turn out that the authorities never caught wind of the screams coming from Ms. Carter's house. They didn't find the bloody body of Marcus Caravahlo, bludgeoned to death on a metal table. His shapely arms, and other body parts, now lay in the deep freezer in a recently remodeled basement. The walls were no longer covered in plastic sheeting, and the floors weren't stained with blood. If she were to have visitors over, they'd be greeted by her smiling face, and an offer to stay for dinner. She'd insist that the stew she was making was to die for. And she'd not be sad when they'd inevitably turn her down. They always did. She unnerved her neighbors, and they couldn't ever figure out why. But it meant more for her, and she was perfectly fine with that.
Emma was sentimental. Alongside the locket she owned containing the photograph of her brother, she had a bracelet and an anklet made from the teeth of her parents. Varied carved decorations on the walls were made with the bones of the other victims. Her prized piece sat front and center on her mantle, pieced back together, dried, and polished. Emma smiled as she leaned in to stare into the dark eye sockets of the skull.