He must've realized by now that screaming was a waste of energy. Maybe the pain taught him that. Maybe the silence around him did. Or maybe it was just the weight of futility bearing down on his damned skull.
Either way—he shut up.
Not out of fear. Not out of understanding. The wooden gun butts jammed into his jaw guaranteed he couldn't do much more than twitch his tongue and glare. And glare he did—his eyes burning with all the hate in hell. But his mouth stayed locked open, his tongue squirming like some dying thing trapped in a cage.
I crouched beside him, slow. Deliberate. My fingers reached into that mouth like someone reaching into a furnace. He snapped instinctively, even with his jaws pried wide—but the wood held. His teeth scraped metal. Useless. Powerless. And that's exactly how I wanted him.
I hooked a finger under his tongue and yanked.
His whole body—or what was left of it—jerked at the contact. His head vibrated in my grip, blood vessels pulsing in his temples, his eyes wide and wild. He knew what was coming. And I didn't give a damn.
Because the girls?
They didn't get to scream.
They never had the luxury of making noise. No warnings. No protests. Just silence—because of him. Because of what he did to them in the dark. Because of how he stripped them of their breath, their dignity, their names. And now, this bastard, this crawling horror, had the audacity to scream obscenities at me. At them. From his goddamn severed head.
So no. That wouldn't stand. I wanted him quiet. And I wanted justice—the kind of justice that didn't come from clean rope or holy fire, but from something personal. Something cruel. Something slow.
Especially since he was healing.
Still healing.
All because he touched my brick. The brick that were mysterious gave him
It didn't matter. Not anymore.
Let the blood heal his tongue.
I'd cut it again.
And again.
And again.
I reached for the rustiest blade I could find. It wasn't sharp. Not really. Not anymore. But that was the point. The edge was rough, serrated with decay. The kind of metal that moaned when it scraped bone. I held it in front of his eyes, and I swear he understood.
The knife pierced his tongue like a nail through parchment. Slow. Reluctant. Rust flaked off as it sank in, filling the wound with poison, with time. His head shook violently, jaw flexing, muscles spasming. Not because it would help—but because he thought the pain might end faster if he moved.
I liked that desperation.
I dragged the knife sideways, splitting the tongue. A wet, meaty sound echoed out—a slick rip, like cloth tearing underwater. Blood oozed thick and black, but even as it spilled, I could see the new tissue starting to form. Writhing. Stitching itself back together like it had something to prove.
"Good." I whispered. "Grow it back. I'm not done."
I stabbed the knife in again.
Cut again.
Slower this time.
The tongue twitched violently now. It didn't want to come back. I could feel it. The healing wasn't proud anymore. It was afraid. Like even the blood wanted to give up. But it couldn't. Not yet. That cursed blood was still working. Still rebuilding.
Let it.
I'd empty the tank myself.
And then, just because cruelty demanded symmetry—I dragged the blade outward, slicing into both cheeks. Deep. Wide. A grin. A mutilated smile. One that split his face in half and spilled hot blood down both sides. His expression contorted—not in pain exactly, but in rage so deep it tasted like hate.
Now he looked like something out of a nightmare. Something that deserved to be on display. A Joker's grin carved into divine flesh.
But I wasn't laughing.
I reached in again. That ruined tongue still had some fight left in it. I cut it again.
He jerked. Eyes rolled. Spit foamed from the corners of his open mouth.
And then I kept going.
I kept cutting.
Because he kept healing.
The girls they hadn't gotten a second chance. They didn't get a moment to scream. He stole that from them.
So now, I was stealing it from him.
Not just his voice.
His pride.
His regeneration.
His hope.
The blood would run out eventually. He could only grow back so much. But until then?
Until then, I'd carve that tongue a hundred times. A thousand.
Let him watch the ritual. Let him see the girls—each one laid to rest with the dignity he never gave them. Let him see their names spoken aloud, their memories honored, their silence broken by us—not screams, but reverence.
Let him feel what it's like to be mute in the face of justice.
Let him suffer the silence he forced on them.
And when the tongue stopped healing—
when the blood ran dry—
when the cuts stayed open—
Only then would I stop.
Not out of mercy.
But because he still had to go through.