Chapter 3

Doc

The basin before me was a dark, pinkish hue, thick and viscous, like the last glow of sunset smeared across the water. I reached in, wringing a rag out with a slow, deliberate motion, feeling the resistance of the deep stain. It’s funny—this routine, mundane as it sounds, somehow felt like a ritual. A cleansing for what I’d just done, and a quiet acknowledgment of the darker things I’d tolerated in myself.

I turned my attention to the tools, each one laid out with a clinical precision that masked the tremor beneath my fingertips. The scalpel gleamed freshly sharpened, its edge catching what little light there was. I took a breath, steadying myself, and carefully wiped away the smears of blood and dirt. “Perfect again,” I muttered softly, almost mocking the phrase as I slid the blade into a clean cloth.

Next was the dental spreader, the cold steel feeling heavier in my hand than it should. I remembered Shelby’s voice, sharp and unwavering. 

“You’ll need discipline, Doc. If you don’t clean your tools, you won’t stay in control.” His words echoed in my mind as I ran the rag along the serrated edges, ensuring every trace of carnage was scrubbed away.

Then there was the small, cruel-looking saw. It had seen recent work—sharp, relentless, unyielding—and I felt a flicker of respect for its ruthless efficiency. I cleaned it with a meticulous patience, knowing that without discipline, it could turn against me.

I paused, staring at the tools in the light, before speaking aloud. 

“Thankfully I listened to Shelby.” My voice was thick with relief and a touch of defiance. If I’d acted on my impulsive urges, if I’d let my instinct override reason, I might have created something far worse—something I wouldn’t be able to undo.

I thought about her, my new paramour, the one I just purchased, she lingered like a shadow in my mind. If I hadn’t just killed, had that fresh meal, then I would have been   reckless,  I’d crossed a line, she wouldn’t have been just an injured symbol. She would have become a furious ornament, attached to my cock.

“Keep it together,” I whispered, a vow to myself. I carefully set the tools aside, wiping down the tray with a cloth that now seemed almost ceremonial. The basin’s dark pink water roiled faintly as I squeezed out the rag one last time, feeling the weight of the act I’d committed—and the restraint that kept me from spiraling into chaos.

I dumped the bucket and wiped down the steel table until it shone like a mirror, reflecting the sterile, clinical glow of the room. I took a breath, steadying myself, when the door whispered. Opening behind me. I didn’t need to turn—my senses knew who was coming.

The air shifted, growing heavier and cooler, as Don stumbled into the inner chamber. Bare chested, patches of skin weeping a thin, yellowish fluid, he looked like a ghost draped in decay. His eyes, milky and unfocused, seemed to drift in their sockets, as if he had long forgotten how to anchor himself to the present.

“You're early,” I said, my voice low and gravelly, resonating in my bones.