In the meantime…

Her dark blue dress had spots of blood on the skirt. Her youthful face had a smear of blood on her cheek. Her cloth boots were torn. Her black hair was glossy with blood. The iris of her jet black eyes had a faint red glow to them. The only part of her clothing that hadn’t been contaminated by anything was her black yoga pants. Her knife held loosely in her hand dripped with blood. She stood over a bleeding man who lay on the ground with barely enough life left in him to writhe about. Next to him lay four more bodies.

The man opened his eyes and looked up at her, matching her seemingly lifeless gaze. “You don’t feel,” he choked through his mouth, “bitch.”

She knelt down and placed her hand on his forehead. “I don’t feel,” she said with an expressionless monotone voice, “I can read your feelings,” she placed her knife against his neck. “You feel fear, some panic, and indignity.” She rubbed the flat side of her knife against his chin. “You feel this is unjust.”

“Fuck you,” the man muttered with labored breath.

“I shall,” she said as she took the knife away from his neck. She repositioned herself and pushed his knees apart and knelt back down between his legs. She placed her hand carefully on his inner thigh for a moment before driving the knife abruptly between his rectum and scrotum. The man screamed in short shouts of pain. She pulled the knife out slowly, only to thrust it back in. She began running the knife in and out of him, twisting it as she looked at his face. “Please look at me, I want to know if I’m doing this right.” The man writhed a little more before finally stopping his movement, exhaling one last time before he stopped taking any more breath.

She stood up again after wiping the excess blood against his pant leg. Putting her knife back in its sheath, she took the ritual book from the workbench in the garage and placed it in a bag. Pulling out a set of five thick handled throwing knives that had been wrapped in a fabric holding case, she unrolled it and set it on the table. Turning to a bare wall in the room, she held up her hands and moved them around, as if each hand was forming a half circle. As she did this, a circle burned onto the wall. She then cut downward and away with her hands, before bringing them up and out, then swiping one hand across horizontally. With these hand motions, a pentagram formed in the circle.

Holding one hand towards the man she had just tortured to death, she held her palm towards him and slowly clenched a fist. Raising her fist up, the man began to float up. With a quick movement, she faced her palm towards the circle. This caused the man to fly into the circle, his arms and legs sprawled out towards the star points. With her free hand, she waved her palm down over the set of knives which began floating out of their slots. Sending her hand towards the man in the pentagram, the five knives shot into him. One in each wrist, one through each ankle, and one into his neck.

She turned and left, taking the ritual book with her. Before leaving she looked at the man one last time. “You don’t honor my father,” she said softly, “he shall not have his sacred name used for your selfish games.”