and then gestured for the crew to step back to the back of the room, well outside of Damage's field of vision.
“Beretta, I want your help.”
“Okay.”
“When he starts to scream, you’ll have to gag him.”
She held out a thick orange wash cloth from the bathroom. He just looked at it, a bit stunned.
“I don’t want the neighbors to come asking questions.”
He nodded. “...right.”
She then pulled out from her grocery bag a small bag full of fun-sized candy bars, holding them up to Beretta. Locke snickered and turned away when Beretta glared at him.
“These are the kind you like, right?”
He grabbed the bag, not quite believing her. “Yeah.”
“Payment, then, for helping me out.”
She knew how to bribe him. He felt a massive wave of relief just holding the bag of sweets, dumb though it was. He'd been missing his go-to stress therapy. Helen was tastier than any of the sweets in that bag, and that was for sure, but everybody had their poisons. What was it called when one poison offered you another?
He stuffed the bag away for later, surprise filling him at Helen's show of graciousness. Maybe there was more to her attraction to him than he'd thought.
Helen walked around the room, dimming the lights and arranging one lamp so that it worked like a spotlight, its lens firmly in Damage’s face. Finally, taking a breath, Helen snapped a smelling salt under Damage’s nose. She snapped at his eyes and ears, startling him awake.
“Mr. Damage,” she said. “Mr. Damage, are you awake?”
“Yes. Yeah, who are you?” He shifted slowly against his bonds, a crooked smile on his face.
“I’m the Nurse. Do you know where you are?”
“I...who the fuck are you?”
She slapped him. “I am the Nurse. Don’t make me repeat myself. I won’t like it. You’re on my operating table, Damage. You’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
She slapped him again. It was a light thing, more like a swat than a slap, like the motion you'd use to go after a fly buzzing around your ears. “No swearing.”
On top of the dresser, she had set up a stand with her bag on it. Beretta noticed the bag was exactly inside Damage’s eye line—right at the corner of it. He had to strain to see it, but it was there for him to see.
Helen pulled out a hammer first, testing its weight in her hand. She made a few careful swats with it. Then a box cutter. She took a moment to slide the blade all the way out and then back in again, letting it glint in the dim light. Then she pulled out a pair of pliers, snapping them heavily.
“Hey,” said Damage. “Hey, lady. Whatever you think you’re doing, you got a bad idea. I know people, all right? Serious people, and they’re not going to—”
“Can you feel your legs, Mr. Damage?”
“Feel my...what?”
“You can’t feel your legs, Mr. Damage. Try moving them.”
“I...I...the fuck? The fuck did you do to my legs? ”
He tried again to move his head up to look at himself, but his forehead was strapped down tight. All his muscles tensed, flexed, but he was tied down tight.
“Try not to worry about it too much, Mr. Damage. The damage, if you’ll pardon the pun, isn’t permanent.” She picked up the utility knife. “Or at least, it doesn’t have to be.”
She leaned down out of his eye line to the small table where she kept all her accouterments. Making a lot of noise, she cut off a long strip of chicken breast, lathering it in the pool of barbecue sauce she had made on the small table. Then she held up the strip of—for all intents and purposes—bloody flesh, briefly in Damage’s face.
“You have more where this came from,” she said. “A whole lot more.”
She laid the strip down across his bare stomach. The chicken was warm and no doubt felt like honest-to-goodness human flesh on his belly.
“F-fuck. What the fuck? Who the fuck a-are you?”
“I want to ask you some questions, Mr. Damage. And you’re
“Beretta, I want your help.”
“Okay.”
“When he starts to scream, you’ll have to gag him.”
She held out a thick orange wash cloth from the bathroom. He just looked at it, a bit stunned.
“I don’t want the neighbors to come asking questions.”
He nodded. “...right.”
She then pulled out from her grocery bag a small bag full of fun-sized candy bars, holding them up to Beretta. Locke snickered and turned away when Beretta glared at him.
“These are the kind you like, right?”
He grabbed the bag, not quite believing her. “Yeah.”
“Payment, then, for helping me out.”
She knew how to bribe him. He felt a massive wave of relief just holding the bag of sweets, dumb though it was. He'd been missing his go-to stress therapy. Helen was tastier than any of the sweets in that bag, and that was for sure, but everybody had their poisons. What was it called when one poison offered you another?
He stuffed the bag away for later, surprise filling him at Helen's show of graciousness. Maybe there was more to her attraction to him than he'd thought.
Helen walked around the room, dimming the lights and arranging one lamp so that it worked like a spotlight, its lens firmly in Damage’s face. Finally, taking a breath, Helen snapped a smelling salt under Damage’s nose. She snapped at his eyes and ears, startling him awake.
“Mr. Damage,” she said. “Mr. Damage, are you awake?”
“Yes. Yeah, who are you?” He shifted slowly against his bonds, a crooked smile on his face.
“I’m the Nurse. Do you know where you are?”
“I...who the fuck are you?”
She slapped him. “I am the Nurse. Don’t make me repeat myself. I won’t like it. You’re on my operating table, Damage. You’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
She slapped him again. It was a light thing, more like a swat than a slap, like the motion you'd use to go after a fly buzzing around your ears. “No swearing.”
On top of the dresser, she had set up a stand with her bag on it. Beretta noticed the bag was exactly inside Damage’s eye line—right at the corner of it. He had to strain to see it, but it was there for him to see.
Helen pulled out a hammer first, testing its weight in her hand. She made a few careful swats with it. Then a box cutter. She took a moment to slide the blade all the way out and then back in again, letting it glint in the dim light. Then she pulled out a pair of pliers, snapping them heavily.
“Hey,” said Damage. “Hey, lady. Whatever you think you’re doing, you got a bad idea. I know people, all right? Serious people, and they’re not going to—”
“Can you feel your legs, Mr. Damage?”
“Feel my...what?”
“You can’t feel your legs, Mr. Damage. Try moving them.”
“I...I...the fuck? The fuck did you do to my legs? ”
He tried again to move his head up to look at himself, but his forehead was strapped down tight. All his muscles tensed, flexed, but he was tied down tight.
“Try not to worry about it too much, Mr. Damage. The damage, if you’ll pardon the pun, isn’t permanent.” She picked up the utility knife. “Or at least, it doesn’t have to be.”
She leaned down out of his eye line to the small table where she kept all her accouterments. Making a lot of noise, she cut off a long strip of chicken breast, lathering it in the pool of barbecue sauce she had made on the small table. Then she held up the strip of—for all intents and purposes—bloody flesh, briefly in Damage’s face.
“You have more where this came from,” she said. “A whole lot more.”
She laid the strip down across his bare stomach. The chicken was warm and no doubt felt like honest-to-goodness human flesh on his belly.
“F-fuck. What the fuck? Who the fuck a-are you?”
“I want to ask you some questions, Mr. Damage. And you’re
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