Chapter 98: Oedipus Complex
Louis laid on the ground and groaned in pain, his eyelashes fluttering, but never closing. "My eye, my eye. . ." The silvery knife swung around, like a broken seesaw in a lonely playground. Bright-red droplets left their marks on the floor. I restrained his hand that reached for his twisted face. Louis wriggled his fingers. He tried bending his back but my weight stopped him from doing so. The boy flopped to the ground—a heavy, dull sound resounded—beating the air out his lungs, throat, and mouth, together with his spit and a high pitched squeal.
"Relax, will you? It's only your eye. You have another one, don't you?"
"You're horrible, I haven't done anything wrong—"
I held down his head and the knife dug into his eyeball. A few drops of blood spurt out. The blade passed through the cobweb of flesh and I felt it touching bone. A milky-white substance left the gash, widening it slightly. "Is that so," I said, "but you aren't exactly innocent, are you?"
He harshly bit his lips and stilled his voice. "I don't know what you're getting at! I was raised in a small baron family by my mother until the age of 14 where I was sent to His Royal Majesty to become his servant. I've never met you in my life, so why would I be hostile to you?"
"You're still lively, aren't you," I commented. "Do you want me to increase the pressure?" I squeezed his sweat-drenched neck and he cried out with a hoarse voice. He twitched occasionally after, but otherwise, he remained quiet. "Good."
The boy sniffed and I saw his shoulders trembling. I looked at his face and saw, in his remaining eye, little tears gathering. "What do you want from me?"
"Is that not obvious? Tell me who you are and who sent you. Don't spare the details please, because you see, details make the story."
"I . . . I really don't know. . . anything." His words slowed down, and he felt heavier to my hands. Had the pain surpassed what he could hold, bringing him to the verge of passing out?
His blood had formed a tiny river. I thought of my dear friend and how I spilled a bucket of red paint over her canvas. She had called me a goddamn idiot and stated what a bad omen it was. I told her as long as she had her wonderful eyes, her works would always end up incredible. And in the end, I was right, wasn't I? She always loved painting and I loved watching her paint, though I did not carry the sensibility to truly appreciate it. The color of his blood reminded me of that moment.
"Stop wasting my time." I stomped on his hand. The jolting pain quickly awakened him, or maybe it was his own shrieks. "You really are stubborn. If you are innocent, then answer me this: how come your shoes are muddy?"
My question confused Louis, but he obliged. "I was out in the rain, it must have happened then. Yes, so what?"
"More specifically, you were running in the rain, right? Your shoes, there are signs of them being wet on the front but none at the back, proving that you've been running. Quite hastily, I might add. I wonder, where were you heading?"
The servant's mouth slackened in surprise. His lips moved without any sound as he tried grasping for the right words. "That's, um, I can't remember. My head feels dizzy and I can't concentrate. So what if I've been running? How does that lead to my eye being gouged out?"
"Steady, my boy." I moved close to his ear. With a smile, I asked him, "Are you sure you were running? You said so yourself, right? When I asked you to reach for something out of the drawer, you told me you couldn't do it because of your bad knee. So why don't you explain that to me?"
"Wait could it be—" His remaining eye widened and he tried turning his head. However, the abrupt motion irritated his gash and he could only twitch his neck. "Did you intentionally ask me to get your clothes to see how I would react?" he asked, but his voice suddenly wavered in uncertainty.
"Furthermore, you've been running through rain so vigorously with your supposed bad knee, but your white socks are clean. The ends of your pants are clean too. Also, if you've been working for so long, why do your clothes not fit?" I laughed. "You see where I am going with this, don't you?"
Louis gulped down. He had stopped struggling at some point.
"So let's stitch everything together. Feel free to correct me if any of my deductions are off the mark." I took a deep breath. "You're not a servant in this place. Likely, you've been waiting outside the mansion for me to come out. But due to unforeseen circumstances, I stayed inside, ruining your previous plans. Panicked, you ran after me and took a servant's clothes. You either knocked another servant out or luckily found a wardrobe for you to take. Still, you are quite tall, so it was hard for you to find a suitable size. Since you had little time, you decided to make do with the closest fit; Only your shoes could not be switched, which is why they remained dirty. Am I right?"
He clenched his teeth as I saw his jaw tighten. "That doesn't make me a killer though! What would I gain from entering like that?"
"Let's continue. Anyone breaking into a home would carry a weapon with them. You can't effectively kill, threaten, or kidnap someone without proper equipment, after all. Seeing the era we are in, let's only include cold weapons. Something compact, easy to carry, and simple to hide—that would be a knife, wouldn't it?"
"That . . ." he opened his mouth, struggling to find his words.
"So, where did you hide it? In an unexpected situation with little time to think;" I reached for his hips. "If it were me—not in any pockets, they are too shallow." My hands slithered up his waist. "Not fastened with a belt either, the cold metal is uncomfortable and I might poke myself when moving." They continued up his back, probing underneath his shirt. "Not on my chest for the same reasons. Not in my shoes either, too impractical." He flung his arms, trying to hide them. "Not in my sleeves, there's no proper hold, and moving my hand would feel awkward. That leaves only one position:" I decisively seized his ankles and pulled his pant-cuffs up. "Here."
A shimmering knife revealed itself, stuck in his left sock. I pulled it by the hilt and it slid out like a sheathed sword. "Shit, that's, uh, " he tried to explain.
"No need. I already knew where you hid the blade. I tricked you to confirm my assumptions. You couldn't bend down because your short pants would have revealed the weapon."
"How is that possible?"
"Oh dear, it's elementary, my good man." I clicked my tongue. In a prim voice, I asked him again, "Now let us return to business: Who sent you? Well, I can guess without you telling me. It's that Chess Organization, isn't it?"
Louis, if that was even his name, gave me a look of being startled and incredulous—then he gave me a foolish grin that stretched for his ears. He let his tense body relax. I noticed how shiny his skin had become, from his own sweat, I suppose. "It's not called the Chess Organization. We are . . . the Crowns of Camelot."
"The what? Do I look like I care about that?" I pressed my knee on his head while he desperately fought against me. The blade lodged in his eye came dangerously close to the floor. "Tell me who wants me dead, and for what reason. I need to understand. I want a name."
His voice cracked. "You think you can threaten me? There's nothing you can show me that I haven't seen before. If I don't tell you—I know—the end, right? Fine, kill me then." Every word he said came hard-earned, squeezed through his teeth, with breathless remarks. He fought against my weight and his arms swelled from his strength.
"Kill? Say, is this just a part-time job for you? Any self-respecting assassin knows to not threaten death in an interrogation. If you died, how would I get any answers?" I ground my knee on his back and felt his bony spine. "No, this is a teachable moment, so forgive me, it's going to sting a little."
I twirled Louis' own knife in my hands. A sharp terror disguised as warmth ran up his neck. His mouth blew open. "NO!" he screamed, and I urged him to be quiet since a lady was sleeping. He tried to move his neck, veins appeared from the force. I held him tightly.
I felt a grin creep up my face and I covered it with my sleeve, as a smile now would not look good. Thankfully, the darkness hid my features well. "There's nothing I can show you? How about eternal darkness?" The blade came whistling down. It gleamed, and I stabbed his eye; his unhurt one that is. He prepared to scream again, but I guarded his mouth, and only muffled cries escaped through my slender fingers. He still thrashed around with two shafts poking out his eyes.
I bent down again to wipe his blood off me. "Next, should I slice your ears? Or maybe your nose? No, I think I will go with your tendons to stop you from thrashing around. Either way, your tongue should be last, right? Until you are only a doll with no senses, drifting in eternal darkness." I smiled innocently. "I'm sure you never had such an experience before."
"Stop, please, stop, stop, please—" Red flowers bloomed on the wooden floor. His face was blank, he drifted, drifting, floating away. He reflected a state of shock, and when it was over—if it was over—the boy would remember naught.
I reached for another knife among the many cutlery. I wished to pour water on the silvery blade, but out came wine. That should do; for disinfection, it was then. "Just a little more. Be good." I placed myself on top of him once more and grabbed the back of his lower leg. I aimed the knife at the protruding line of his ankle—namely the Achilles Tendon, I believe—and he began his pleading. I hushed him and said, "Do not worry, I will definitely not let you die." I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.
The tendon pulsated similar to a frog on a cutting board. The knife came close to piercing his skin. "Princess, she is the princess! That's what they call her, I don't know anything more. I swear, I swear!"
I stood up and patted my dress. It gained some splatter of red, though it was no big deal. My eyes fell on Louis. "Good. Stop your bleeding. Maybe a Mage can repair your eyes, I know the Organization has those. Well, I think."
He aimlessly moved his head. "Oh Lord. . . oh Dear Lord, the pain," he muttered vacantly.
"Don't focus on your eyes and it will go away. Want me to hypnotize you?"
"You think I care about that?" He pushed me away and held his face. "I've used her name in vain. I've done something unforgivable." He crawled around, shaking non-stop. Blood kept dripping out his wounds. "Do you understand what that means? You should have just killed me, you bastar—" He suddenly grasped his chest and started writhing around in agony. His shouts right now were the rawest they had ever been. An unexpected development.
Startled, I fell back and asked him what the matter was.
"Y. . . You've doomed 'e," he said while yelling. He ripped his shirt apart and my eyelids shot open due to what I saw. A cold gust of wind, stinging like acid, blew past me. "She will show. . . worse than hell. That's what it means to betray her." At the position of his heart was a tattoo of a pawn. It bulged like a balloon, shredding his stretched skin and revealing red meat. "She will. . . me. She will— No, no, no."
He turned his head towards me. Though he had lost his eyes it still felt like he could see me. The hilts of both blades pointed at me. Only white matter was left in his sockets. The boys' eyelashes were eviscerated by his incessant blinking. The blood running down his face made him look like a Weeping Angel. A horrified Weeping Angel.
"Mother, I've come to see you."
Louis grunted and cocked his head back—far enough for me to see his chin. He took a deep breath. Like a coiled spring, the boy returned, I saw his face, then his scalp, and he violently slammed his head onto the floor. The blades shot through his skull, grinding bone. They crushed his eyes and left through the back. He turned silent in a fetal position. It was as if he had been praying to God.
He was dead.
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