He stalked toward her slowly, as if he enjoyed drawing out her fear and suffering. Which, of course, he did. She pulled against the chains that bound her to the cold, metal table, but it was no use. Those chains had withstood several struggles, several bids for freedom, all with equally fruitless results. This time was no different. The closer he drew, the more frenzied she became. The tape over her mouth muffled her screams. He almost removed the tape so he could hear an uninterrupted shriek, just one, before she was forever silent. But he resisted. Her cries would only draw attention that he didn’t want. Yet.
When he reached her side, she leaned as far away from him as the restraints would allow. It wasn’t far enough. She still strained and struggled, but her movements were becoming slower, feeble. She was getting tired. He smiled. It was almost time. He brandished his favorite knife, the one with the cleanest cut. She let out one more good, albeit useless, scream. His grin widened. Now for the fun. He held her head down with one of his own large hands so her thrashing didn’t cause him to make a mistake. She was perfect and he would hate to waste that perfection because of a misplaced cut.
He went to work and her panic, at first renewed with pain and a desperate wave of self-preservation, eventually dimmed until she moved no longer. He checked her pulse. Surprisingly, she was still alive, but in shock. The fluttering in her neck was weak. It wouldn’t last long. Neither would she.