Killing Room

by Shawn Raiford

  The woman clawed at his hands, screaming "No!" over and over, but he overpowered her. He strapped down her arms. The woman stopped moving, staring off into the distance, no longer there mentally.

  I recognized that stare. That special place, in that woman's mind, was a thousand miles away from that table.

  When I was a kid, and those men abused me, I went to my special place in my head every time. A rose garden. It was so beautiful. There were so many kinds of roses: Golden Celebration, Louis de Funes, American Beauty, Violets Carson, Sunsprite, Gertrude Jekyll, Landora, Pat Austin, Harrison’s Yellow, and many more.

  I never told anyone about my rose garden, not even Henry. Over the following years after I killed Miranda and severely injured Kenneth, I spent time in foster homes. Psychologists and psychiatrists tried to help me, but I could never open up to them. Everyone, in my eyes, was a stranger, except one: Dr. Leila Womak. A shrink—who specialized in helping children and adults with sexual abuse.

  I hadn’t been to my rose garden in a long time. No need. Going there was a coping mechanism from being hurt by those monsters. Now, I hurt monsters.

  My eyes narrowed as I focused in on the video. The man cut another strip of skin from the woman’s left arm but she did not scream. He slapped her; she didn't react.

  "Come on!" the man growled at her. "Scream!"

  Dead on the inside, the woman did not react. The man shoved the knife into her throat. He walked off camera, leaving the knife in her neck. An instinctual reaction, her mouth opened and closed. I could hear her gasping for air.

  Off camera, my ears picked up his laughter as she lay there, dying. After another minute, the woman stopped making the awful sounds.

  Pistol still in my hand, I stormed over to Barry. "Are there more videos?"

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. "Yes, but I don't keep them."

  "Why not?"

  "I only edit the movies and send them back to him, then delete them. For obvious reasons, I don't want them on my laptop longer than need be,” Barry said.

  Leaving evidence that could get you prison time was seriously stupid so I believed him. Just with the fact that he edits this kind of movie, means he could be lying. "Who is that man?" I demanded, gripping my weapon tightly. "I need to find him!"

  He shook his head. "His name is Edward Rawlings, but I don't know where he is!"

  Even though I believed him, it did not mean I had time to waste. My pistol went into my waistband, and I pulled out a knife from a pocket on my thigh. The blade was thin and black. With the ease of a magician inserting a sword into a woman-filled box, I stabbed Barry's right thigh and twisted.

  He yelled, but immediately lowered it to a muffled whimper. Attention from his neighbors was the last thing he needed. Cops could possibly be called and he would have to explain the video.

  "If you want to live, you piece of shit, tell me where I can find Edward, because I'm going to kill him!"

  Chapter Nine

  Down the drain

  EDWARD REMOVED ONE OF his orange rubber gloves to get a better grip.

  With a pair old rusty tin snips, he started cutting off her left ear.

  "No! Please stop! Please!" Crystal screamed.

  When the ear was completely detached, he tossed it aside. And he put the orange glove back on.

  Several customers had mentioned that they liked the gloves; they gave more of a secret, evil laboratory feel. He wore them for many of his videos. Back in the day, his mother wore similar gloves while she slaughtered chickens and goats. Saved her from cleaning the blood from her fingernails, and Edward agreed. When a person dealt in as much blood as he did, using the gloves saved on time.

  His index finger glided across her cheek, brushing away tears. ”The last one didn't last that long, I really hope you do. You're doing good so far."

  Relentless, Crystal begged him to let her go. Like some of the other screamers, she offered to perform multiple sexual acts. Suck his cock. Lick his balls. He could fuck her without a condom and could come inside her. Fuck her in the ass. She'd even lick his ass. Anything he wanted, as long as he let her go. She did nothing for him in that way. No woman or man got him sexually aroused based off looks. Only the screaming excited him.

  As a boy, Edward had been small for his age. The bigger boys always picked on him. He hated it and learned to take out his frustrations on small animals. Around eight years old, he first realized that he had the power to make an animal scream. It made him feel strong. And so powerful.

  Never allowed to leave the yard on his own; if he did, his mother would whip him good. On occasion she allowed him to visit Timmy, who lived next door. One day, after school, a group of big boys beat up Edward. He cried all the way home. Getting beat up didn't make him angry; crying did. As he arrived to the backyard something yelped.

  Quincy, Timmy's puppy, stared back at him from the other side of the fence. Puppies always wanted to play if they weren't sleeping. Edward smiled and stood. He walked over to the fence, reached down and lifted up an unattached section of fence, and Quincy ducked underneath. A spot behind the pup's left ear, his favorite to get scratched. "Hey boy, how are you doing?"

  He found a thick stick and threw it; Quincy ran after it and brought it back. Fetch was fun for a few minutes. Twenty minutes later a bored Edward sat down next to the fence, not far where he let Quincy in.

  He grabbed the stick and hit the ground, knocking up dirt. Still mad at the big boys for beating him up.

  Quincy came over and lay down next to Edward. Thinking of ways to get his revenge on the big boys, he kept hitting the ground with the stick. He closed his eyes, seeing them in his mind and how they hit him. Quincy released a loud yelp.

  His eyes opened and observed the dog trotting away from him. By accident, he hit Quincy and made it cry out in pain. Like the bigger boys did to him. It made Edward feel strong.

  Eventually, Quincy came back to him, and he petted the puppy. It lay down on its back, wanting to be scratched on his belly. He grabbed the puppy’s back leg, and twisted it hard; it yelped again, but much louder. Edward giggled in glee. The pup's cries made Edward think he could make the big boys cry like he made Quincy cry.

  Growing up Edward made all kinds of animals cry out in agony from stabbing them and cutting off limbs.

  When Edward turned thirty he started hurting people, making them scream. At first he made both men and women scream, but he learned women were far more trusting than men so it was easier to capture them.

  His cousin gave him a video camera a few years ago and his life had changed. Edward started recording his time with screamers so he could relive their screams over and over again.

  He started sharing his videos with like-minded people he found online. Over time, those like-minded people began demanding more content and offering to pay. Enough money came in, he eventually quit his job—and only made the videos now.

  "Please! Let me go! I swear to God, I won't tell anyone! And I won't tell the police!" she shouted.

  This one had a good voice, which made for a good screamer. "I know you won't go to the police." He began by using tiny snips to cut off her fingertips.

  Wriggled and writhed, Crystal screamed beautifully.

  Edward laughed and finished cutting off all her fingers. Then he wrapped the stump to stop the bleeding, making sure she stayed alive. Her screams were incredibly gratifying; he soaked up every ounce of Crystal's impressive screams.

  Under the table, he grabbed an old coffee can. He sat it down on the table next to her, smiling. As he opened the can, a putrid odor of rotten flesh rose. Over the years—with each new screamer—he added a finger bone. One of Crystal's fingers went inside. Save something from her, the compulsion came over him every time. He had to save something from each one. Fingers were good enough.

  Over the years, Edward learned the easiest group of females to capture were teenage girls. His cousin told him it was because they wanted to show how wrong their mothers were about everything. T
eenage girls, such easy prey.

  Young mothers were harder to capture, but they lasted the longest on his table than any group. They clung to the hope of seeing their babies again. But they never did.

  For every young mother he caught, Edward could capture ten or more teenage girls. These days, parents did a terrible job at teaching young girls how the world really was. Remarkably dangerous.

  He didn't notice when it happened, but Crystal passed out. A few minutes passed before she regained consciousness again.

  "Now, I need you to turn you over. This will be fun!" he said.

  Glancing up at him, Crystal moaned. "Please sir, just let me go, I swear to God that I'll never tell anybody about this!" A web of snot extended out from her nose. Women could be just as gross as men. Snot was gross. Edward did not fret about it too much; it all would all be washed away later, including the blood. Down the drain on the floor near the table.

  It was funny that Crystal swore to God that she'd never see. No god accepted a woman's choice of being a whore. While being disciplined by his father, his mother asked for Jesus's help. Many times. He didn't care, really. All Edward cared about was making them scream—it made him feel good.

  "If I let you go, what would you tell the police about the loss of your fingers?"

  She did her best at shrugging. "I would say I didn't see your face. All I want, is to see my mother again! Please, sir! I promise I won't say anything, please believe me!"

  He took a long look down at her back. Dark caramel skin. He saw a lot of skin, and she had nice skin. As he picked up the rotary tool, it felt light his his meaty hand. "I need you for a while longer, Crystal."

  The last time he used this tool, things got a little messy. A young mother, Grace, twenty years old, was able to get a hand free after he already had her on the table. Yanking the power tool from its spot on the wall, Grace hauled off and hit him in the head while calling him a sick pervert. Punching her in the face and knocking her out, he confiscated the tool from her and returned its rightful place on the wall. As soon as she woke, he made sure to use the same power tool on her. Whenever the screamers got too rambunctious, he took his time making it hurt.

  For Crystal, Edward decided to use another tool.

  In the cabinet, he found what he wanted, a circular mini saw-blade. He attached it to the tool.

  At times, a screamer had a thick outer layer, so a bigger diameter blade was required. But this one only required a three-quarter inch blade.

  It came to life like a baby alligator in his hand, after he plugged it in. On the low setting, the blade rotated at fifteen thousand revolutions a minute. Thirty-five thousand revolutions a minute when he switched it to the high setting.

  Craning her neck, Crystal rounded her eyes into softballs. "What are you going to do with that? Please stop!"

  He placed the tip of his left index finger where he wanted to start: upper left shoulder blade. As he started cutting, her body tensed—Crystal screamed.

  As if in a trance, Edward’s eyes rolled up into his head. Momentarily, he stopped cutting—his body trembled. At times he couldn't control the excitement.

  Catching his snap, he continued. The boring parts were always edited out. The mini blade remained at a depth of half an inch. Steadily glided down her back, parallel to her spine. Finally stopping just above her plump buttocks.

  Crystal shouted horrible profanity at him. Then apologized. Again offering sexual favors if he only released her. Her mother would worry about her.

  Roughly, a half inch away from the first incision, he repeated the movement, moving parallel to the spine again. Two red lines ran the length of her back now. Then he connected the lines at the top and bottom with the mini blade.

  Near her legs, he placed the rotary tool down on the table with a clank. Taking off the orange rubber gloves, he pinched a spot between the two lines near her neck, just below where he connected them, and pulled up.

  A strip of skin rose up from her back like a thin snake.

  Turning her head, she asked, "What's that?"

  "That's your skin!"

  Chapter Ten

  My sister will kill him

  WHEN HE WAS A kid, not long after he and Chloe were split up, Stu and Carol Irvine, took him into their home at an early age.

  They adopted him when just after he turned nine. He wanted them to adopt Chloe too, but she was too much trouble.

  Walking home, Henry got jumped by four guys from school. Football players. One of the guys, Matt Myers, was in the same biology class. After failing to answer the teacher's question some of the kids, including Henry, laughed at him. And Matt didn't appreciate being laughed at by Henry, who did answer the question correctly. So Matt, and three other guys, waited for Henry after school.

  At the time, Henry stood five foot seven, and about a hundred and sixty pounds. Each of the four guys were bigger than Henry.

  Matt and his friends beat up Henry pretty bad. When he got home, Carol freaked out and took him to the emergency room. All family members, Stu and Leslie, were at the hospital with Henry.

  Matt and his friends gave Henry a busted lip, a black eye, a broken rib, a dislocated his shoulder, and he needed several stitches on his forehead.

  Leslie, the Irvines’ other adopted child, who was friends with Chloe and told her all the Irvine family gossip.

  When Leslie called and told her what happened, Chloe raced to Baytown from Houston. By then Chloe had her own apartment in Houston, working at odds jobs, jobs that she never talked about with him. He figured she dealt drugs or sold stolen goods, but never got it out of her.

  The doctor admitted Henry overnight for observation. Chloe stayed with him all night, along with Carol. At first she demanded the names of the guys who did that to him, but he refused. He even refused to tell Stu or the doctors. Just that he got into a fight and didn't see who it was.

  It didn't matter if he told her or not, within twenty-four hours, Chloe had their names.

  A few days later, he went back to school. Matt said nothing to him, just gave him a smirk. Everyone knew who beat him up, but no one talked, not even Henry. He just wanted to forget about the whole thing.

  Without asking him, Chloe found one of the guys. After school one day, she followed him home. Days later, on a Saturday, she came back and waited. He left the house, and lead her to the other one. They went to eat at a burger place. She entered the burger place too. After she ordered a burger and sat next to them, she talked to them. Asked if they partied, because she wanted to. They had no idea she was Henry's sister. They called Matt and some other guys.

  One of their friend's parents were out of town, so they had a an impromptu party. Beer and pizza were on the menu.

  She waited until they were all drunk. Using a baseball bat she found in one of the bedrooms, Chloe hurt them all.

  When he discovered what she did, he got mad, because she had broken their legs. She had ended their chances at playing football in college.

  Surprisingly, Henry received calls from all four guys, including Matt. They each asked him for forgiveness and they'd never bother him again. And he forgave each of them. Being Catholic meant that he was commanded to forgive those who had transgressed him.

  Later, he borrowed his father's car to visit Chloe at her apartment. Stu and Carol never got in the way of him and his sister. In fact, they encouraged him to talk and do things with her all the time.

  When he arrived at her apartment, they had an argument. She said, "Well, you're the only family I got! Anybody messes with you, I mess with them times ten!"

  "Chloe, I can fend for myself. I know you love me, but …"

  Tears formed in her eyes, running down her cheek. ”When Leslie called she was crying. She told me that you got in a fight and you'd been hurt. I was so scared on my way to the hospital."

  It hit him at that moment. He might disagree with what she did, but she was only reacting to the violence done to her little brother with greater violence. He shook his
head, feeling bad that he got mad at her for retaliating. In her mind, she was helping. When he paused to think about it, in his mind too. He could always count on Chloe. Henry remembered what she did when Uncle molested him. After she killed Miranda and almost killed Kennth, she tried to kill Uncle. But ended up escaping.

  With neutron-star intensity, Chloe stared into his eyes, wiping her tears away. "Henry, I need you to understand something."

  "What?"

  "Those boys got off light. They're lucky I didn't kill them. I don't care! I'll kill anyone who hurts you. I'll always help you when you need it. That'll never ever change."

  Even today, years later, she was still helping him. If Barry was involved with making snuff films, he lost the right to breathe. And Chloe would help the scum to stop breathing. Perhaps, God did not like it, but Henry was good with the solution.

  Henry hoped Chloe would not find anything at Barry's. Caitlyn was dead, her throat had been sliced open—wasn't that enough depravity for one evening?

  Standing outside Caitlyn's apartment, Henry opened a new burrito, the third one. It smelled so good. He knew it probably wasn't healthy or even made from natural products, but he'd liked them since he was a kid. He inhaled the first two. He planned on taking his time with this one.

  Two bites and that was it of the third one. He was getting too full. Wrapping the remain portion back up, he placed it back into the bag, and put the bag in his car.

  Mitch had finished his burger and fries. He must have been hungry because he liked to eat healthy.

  Henry pointed at the Taco Bell bag. "I have more in here. You want one?"

  Mitch shook his head, then patted his belly. "No, I'm good partner. Damn that was good. We owe your sister dinner."

  Henry couldn't help but think about Barry and his movie. Daily, he and Mitch came across evil, but a snuff film. That was a new level of evil. "You think Dennis was telling us the truth about the video?"

  "About what he saw? It might being a snuff film?"