Me∙tic∙u∙lous [muh-tik-yuh-luh s]
1. Taking or showing extreme care about minute details; precise; thorough.
2. Finicky; fussy.
The subject was restrained, laid down on the cool marble table. Four adjustable leather straps stilled its legs, four held its arms, one went around its waist, another around its forehead, and a final wrapped around its shoulders. It couldn't move anything save for its toes and fingers, fingers that were dug deep into its palm, the nails creating red crescents in its skin.
You hated when they did that. It wasn't planned like the red markings from the leather. The patterns weren't perfect, weren't properly calculated.
You gently trace your finger over the black duct tape over the subject's mouth. The tape, precisely four by two inches, matched the subject's hair and made its fear filled watery blue eyes all the more brighter. The black material stood out on the subject's pale skin and muffled its whining.
"Shh," you murmur into the subject's ear. "It's all going to be absolutely perfect."
Its eyes were wide, watching you fearfully. Its body shaking as much as the leather straps would allow.
You stand upright and decide it is time to begin. You turn away momentarily from the subject to take your pick from an array of tools. Each tool was sharpened to the finest they could be, organized by type, size, and color on a dust-free table fixed to the right of the marble table lying in the dead center of the brightly lit room.
You pick the smallest knife you have and the metal ruler and lean over the subject's restrained arm
You cut slowly, carefully, precisely, making sure the seam of red is a straight line measuring three inches. By the time you're done there are seven diagonal dripping lines spaced two inches apart along the subject's left arm. You repeat the process on the other arm and look down satisfactorily at your handiwork.
The subject's screams and begging are still muffled by the black tape. You smile down at them and use your thumb to wipe away the clear drops of liquid that leak from its eyes. You lick your thumb, savoring the salty taste.
"Shh," you coo, pushing its hair back away from its forehead and the leather strap. Its tears made glistening tracks from the corner of the subject's eyes down its temple and onto the marble table.
You turn to your tools and pick up a bigger knife, a medium sized one that is the fourth biggest one you have. You grab two rulers as well as your protractor and place them on the subject's stomach, one ruler horizontally on its stomach and one vertically with the zero end on its navel. You measure five inches from the navel at ninety degrees and dig the tip of your knife into its skin, marking a dot of red. You do the same five inches from the navel at sixty degrees on either side, then again at thirty degrees. You then find the midpoint of the imaginary line between the subject's navel and each dot, and then measure two inches across, making a bloody dot on either end that is one inch from the center.
Dots in place, you put the protractor and one of the rulers on the side table, using the other ruler and the knife to connect the dots, digging the blade in a few centimeters. When you finish, there are now five stretched out and leaking red lined rhombuses fanned out on the subject's stomach. You take a step back to look at your creation and grin. It's as accurate as can be and symmetrical and just perfect. You register the faint scent of copper and you breathe in deep, a soft smile on your lips.
You clean the knife and set it back in its place on the side table, tapping your fingers on the table as you think about what to do next.
You walk away from the subject and towards the cabinet on the wall opposite the door, rooting around and quickly finding your blowtorch. You carry the device back to the subject and see its eyes widen in horror.
After placing the device on the side table, you grab a piece of charcoal and your ruler. You stare at the subject's legs for a minute and then start to draw on its skin. When you finish, the subject's legs are covered in straight lines that run from one leather strap to the next with diagonal lines crossing from the left.
The subject stares at you with confusion tinged fear.
You ignore it and grab the blowtorch, turning it on. You frown in deep concentration as you then let the flame dance on the subject's skin, slowly tracing the lines you drew.
The subject's muffled screams fill the air along with the scent of burning flesh, but you easily put those matters aside.
Finished, the subject's skin is blistering and boiling red in a pattern with patches of unharmed flesh.
You check the clock and realize that you less than an hour until lunch.
You sigh, "Unfortunately, it seems like our fun needs to come to an end here. I have a prior engagement."
The subject's eyes light up in relief and you smile down at it. You trace your finger along its chin and smile down at it.
"I had fun," you say and reach down, under the table to bring out the final tool, the one you use when you end every session.
The subject's eyes widen in horrified fear when it sees what you have gripped in both hands.
"Goodbye," you say and then bring down the axe to make a clean cut at the subject's neck, severing its head from its body, abruptly cutting off its muffled screaming, swiftly ending its life. The smell of blood, rich copper, fills the air as the subject's lifeblood spills onto the floor, a waterfall of red liquid raining from the side of the marble table.
You place the axe beside the headless corpse and stare regretfully at the body. You wish you had more time, but you did have an appointment so it was your own fault for not considering the timing.
As much as it hurts you, you decided to clean up the mess when you return as you have just under forty minutes to shower and get ready. Your best friend will not forgive you if you are late to the blind date.
With one final regretful sigh, mulling over the lost opportunity at more play, you shut the door behind you after bathing in the room in darkness.