The River Runs Dry by L. A. Shorter Page A

gouged. He wanted to shut his eyes and imagine it was her , imagine it was them . His body shook at the thought.
    He lay the girls side by side in the living room and drew some tape from his pocket, wrapping it tight around their heads and covering their mouths. Then he dragged two chairs from the dining room and propped them up onto them, wrapping their wrists and ankles to the arms and legs.
    He set the chairs to face each other a few feet apart. He wanted these girls to watch each other. He wanted them to suffer.
    He lifted some smelling salts to their noses and, one by one, their eyes came to life, a heavy fear burning inside them. The fear grew as their eyes shot around the house and centered on him, hovering over them, his face still shrouded under his cap in the dim light of the room.
    Both of the girls tried to scream, as if in unison, and the man laughed as their yelps were caught behind the tape. They shuffled on their chairs and one fell over. But no matter, there was nowhere she could go.
    The man walked away and reappeared with a knife. It felt so right in his hand, like an extension of his body now. It dangled there menacingly as he walked into the room, the eyes of the struggling girls zeroing in on the shining blade.
    They'd seen the news. They knew what was coming. But this time it would be worse. This time he'd take his time and see them suffer.
    He always cut the hair first. Get rid of that horrible fucking hair, dark and flowing. Sometimes he'd be ferocious, cut deep and tear at the clinging particles as he did. Soon one of the girl's hair was matted with blood, her locks settling on the ground all around her.
    He turned to the other girl, who cowered on the floor, shaking uncontrollably and still trying to scream, still thinking it would make a difference. He didn't smile. He didn't laugh. He just stepped forward and casually lifted her chair back up, and did exactly the same to her.
    Soon they were both whimpering, tears flowing from their eyes. He moved in and grabbed at one of their eye lids, holding them open to get a good look. He moved to the other girl and did the same. She was better, she looked more like her , so she'd go second. She can watch first, see what was about to happen to her. But she didn't look enough like her . No, she wasn't the one....so she'd die tonight.
    The knife soon found it's way into the first girl's right eye. She wriggled and squirmed wildly as the point cut in. But this time he stopped short. He didn't cut deep, he didn't cut to the brain. No, this girl wasn't for dying yet. They were only just getting started.
    The second girl watched in fear as her friend's eyes were cut out, one by one. By the time he was onto the second she'd passed out from the pain, her body convulsing and then going limp. No matter. He'd wake her again soon.
    Then he turned to the second girl and took even greater pleasure in her torture. He started with her face, a face that looked so familiar to his warped mind. Familiar, but not quite close enough. He sliced at her cheeks and across her nose. He cut at her forehead and chin as blood flowed down her face.
    Her pain only got worse as his blade found her eyes, teasing and taunting them before slowly, gradually, digging into her eyeball. Her scream would have pierced his eardrums were it not for the tape covering her mouth. This girl had more fight than the other one, though. She didn't pass out, she just kept on shaking, kept on struggling.
    Then the man spoke, his voice cold and callous: “do you want this to end?”
    She convulsed so hard now that her movements were indecipherable. Was that a shake of the head? You don't want it to end? Or are you nodding?
    “It's never going to,” he whispered again.
    His knife kept slicing, kept feeling it's way around her body.
    Soon he'd end it anyway, but only when he was done, only when he was satisfied.
    Blood was everywhere now. It stained the girl's shirt, running down her face and all over her body,