Burge the Butcher

Burge stood in the cell, his corpulent figure casting a shadow over the boy, who was bound to the wall.

Greasy sweat glistened on his bald head. His eyes roamed the steel cart loaded with his tools, each one an old friend, intimate and familiar. Anticipation tingled in his sausage-like fingers.

He turned to face the captive. The boy's arms and legs were bound tight, chest heaving in shallow gasps. Burge smiled.

"I'm Burge, nice to meet you. We're going to get to know each other real well, kid."

Reaching out, he let his fingers trail over the array of blades, lingering on each one, savoring the cool metal against his skin. He selected a long, slender knife, the edge honed to razor sharpness.

It shined in the flickering light as he raised it.

"Now, let's start this slow," Burge said, his voice a parody of gentleness. "Draw it out real nice. Give you a chance to tell me what I need to know."

He held the knife up, admiring how it caught the light. The boy's eyes followed it, pupils blown wide with terror. Burge chuckled, a wet, ugly sound. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. Peeling the brat apart layer by layer until he spilled his secrets. And the best part? He had all the time in the world.

And he planned to make the most of every bloody minute.

Burge lumbered forward, his heavy footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls. Daron flinched with each approaching thud, his body quaking uncontrollably.

The fat man loomed over him, so close Daron could smell his putrid breath. Burge raised the knife, its polished blade hovering inches from Daron's chest.

With a flick of his wrist, the knife bit into the boy's shirt, slicing through fabric as if it were paper. It parted, revealing skin so white it practically glowed in the dingy room. Burge hummed his approval. The brat's chest rose and fell in panicked breaths, his heart pounding like a trapped animal.

"Tell me, Dearie," Burge purred, feigning concern, "you wouldn't want me to go any further, would you?"

He didn't wait for a response, instead setting the knife aside and picking up a long, slender scalpel from the cart behind him.

"So, let's begin. Where are those pesky files your lot's been hidin'?"

The boy's voice was little more than a whimper. "I... I don't... I really don't know what you're talking about."

Burge tsked. "Oh Daron, really? You disappoint me." He pressed the cold steel of the scalpel to the boy's chest. "I'm willing to give you one more chance, sweetheart. I'm feeling generous today."

Daron's eyes, wide and terrified, darted around the room, desperately seeking a way out. But there was none.

His voice trembled as he stammered, "I swear, I don't—"

A shrill scream cut off the sentence midway as Burge dragged the scalpel downward, slicing a deep line across the boy's chest. Daron's entire body tensed, his back arching off the cold wall. Tears streamed down his face.

"Now, now," Burge chided, "I asked you a question." He wiped the bloody blade on a cloth before returning it to the table. "Let's try this again. Where are the files?"

***

Burge savored the sounds of Daron's screams reverberating off the dank stone walls. Each precise cut of his scalpel elicited a fresh howl of agony from the trembling boy.

He paused, admiring the lines of crimson crisscrossing the boy's thin chest. Daron's breath came in ragged sobs, his chest heaving with each labored exhale. The tears streaming down his cheeks mingled with the blood trickling from the wound.

"Where are the files? Tell me, and I'll end this."

Naturally, he lied. Why would he give up playing with his brand new toy... which was quickly becoming his favorite one yet.

Daron shook his head, gasping through desperate sobs. "I don't know! Please, I swear I don't know anything about any damn files!"

Burge shook his head. "Wrong answer." The scalpel flashed again. Daron wailed.

***

As Burge worked, he whistled a cheerful tune. He varied his technique - a stab here, a long slice there. Daron's anguished cries and whimpers were a pleasing symphony to his ears.

Time bled away, measured in lacerations and blood spilled. As minutes stretched into an hour, Burge noted with delight how the boy slumped further onto the ground, head lolling, strength seeping out with each new wound.

"Files, boy," Burge sing-songed. "Be a good lad and tell me where they are."

His tongue darted out to lick his lips, tasting salt. The air held the delicious tang of human suffering.

Daron's eyelids fluttered weakly. His cries had become thin whines escaping his throat. Burge reached out to grab the boy's face, his bloody hand left prints on the teenagers face.

"Stay awake now. We've only just begun our fun."

Daron's eyelids fluttered once more before sliding shut, his body going limp against the restraints. The boy's head fell forward, chin resting on his blood-smeared chest. His labored breathing slowed, punctuated by the occasional shuddering gasp.

Burge paused, frowning.

He tapped his latest blade against Daron's cheek, but the boy remained unresponsive.

With a sigh, Burge straightened, looking down at his handiwork with a critical eye. The canvas of Daron's torso was a mess of crimson lines and oozing wounds... a testament to Burge's skill and dedication.

"Pity," Burge muttered, his voice tinged with disappointment. He had hoped to prolong the session, to push the boy to the very brink of endurance before wringing out the location of the files. But it seemed Daron's fragile constitution had betrayed them both.

Burge wiped the scalpel he held clean on Daron's tattered shirt, his gaze lingering on the boy's slack features. In the harsh light, Daron looked even younger, his face pale and drawn.

Burge's footsteps left red prints on the dirty floor as he exited the room, creating a smacking sound with each step. A twisted grin spreads across his face as he turned by the exit, taking one last look at his victim before leaving.

"Oh, the wonderful memories we'll make," he snickered, slamming shut the rusted metal door with a resounding clang echoing through the desolate corridors.