He'd always thought the red mist would fall. He recalled reading an article amongst his father's belongings, in which criminals claimed they had no influence in their own actions. He thought that if he was ever put in such a situation that his vision would cloud, that he too would lose control. But as he stood in the dimly lit garage he could see perfectly clearly and was very much in control. And he was enjoying it. He stepped calmly around the perimeter of the garage, his boots thudding softly on the concrete floor. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his battered leather jacket. He struck a match against the pebbledash and lit one. He took a slow deep drag, blowing the smoke through his nostrils. The match fell to the ground and he extinguished it with his heel.
He reclined against the back wall and cocked his head, examining the figure sat in the centre of the empty space. The man was bound and gagged with strips of bed sheet, the blood from his head wound trickled slowly down his torn shirt, pooling on the cold floor beneath him. The bare light bulb flickered overhead as the limp figure in front of him came to and struggled pathetically against his restraints. Fen's lip curled flashing white teeth. His chest moved rapidly with a silent laugh, his eyes hidden in shadow.
"Welcome back to earth," he said, nonchalantly. "Do you like what I've done with the place? I was aiming for council estate minimalism. I think I pulled it off, don't you?"
Fen dropped to the man's eye level, grinned menacingly.
"Do you know what I'm going to do?"
The terrified man shook his head cautiously, the gag pulling against his burst lip.
"Neither do I. Are you afraid?" He didn't bother to find out and turned his back. I should be afraid, he thought, but I'm not. He took another drag from his cigarette and stopped to look at it's smouldering orange tip. He tapped the ash from it and remembered the scars on his sister's arms, the scars he had, to his shame, ignored. Now his only wish was to make this piece of filth pay for what he'd done, even at the cost of his own soul. He was going to make this man's final hours as agonising as possible.
"You smoke those thin cigars don't you?"
The man nodded, sweat pouring off him. If it hadn't been for the concussion, he'd have guessed where this line of questioning was heading. Fen took the near-spent cigarette from his lips, twirling it between his fingers before stubbing it out on the man's exposed chest. He let out a scream, muffled by the dirty fabric as the smell of searing flesh filled the damp air.
"Hurts does it? Hmm. Do you think it hurt when you used my little sister as an ashtray?"
Fen balled his fist and punched him as hard as he could without knocking him out again. Blood oozed from his now-crooked nose, trickling down into his mouth. He spluttered, little drops of blood spraying Fen's white shirt.
"I warned you, but you just wouldn't listen. Didn't I say if you ever hurt her I'd come after you? But I suppose every big brother says that, you didn't expect me to do it did you."
Fen peered at the man's twisted face. No, of course you didn't.
"Are you sorry now?"
He nodded frantically, bloody tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Not nearly sorry enough."
Fen reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his trusty Swiss army knife. He examined all the various attachments, each one giving him ideas he never thought he'd have. He carefully slid out the large blade, tarnished from Cub Scout days, but still sharp enough for the job in hand. Fen pressed the knife point into the skin below the mans jaw, just hard enough to break the skin and let out a dribble or crimson, before pulling it away again.
He sniffed the air and detected ammonia. The man in front of him had actually wet himself, still tied to the chair. Fen stepped over the puddle and pulled off the gag, bending down to meet his eye level, almost absently tapping the blade against his own chin.
Fen jerked his hand up suddenly, grasping the man's face hard between his thumb and forefinger.
"You know beating her to a pulp didn't do the damage, it was the poison. The way you ground her down, made her believe she was nothing. That's the crime you'll pay for."
He wrenched the man's jaws open and sliced into his tongue, his eyes wide with terror. Fen hacked into the flesh, blood pouring from his mouth, clashing violently with the now white skin of his face. Fen worked at it for what seemed like an hour, the blade becoming blunter with every stroke. The muscle finally came free as he tore the last fibre of tissue. He discarded the impotent fleshy lump to the ground. It's owner was barely conscious, head slumped forward in a vein attempt not to choke. Steam filled the lockup, filling the air with the sticky odour of congealing blood.
He sighed, more out of reluctant boredom than anything else. He examined the figure before him, lifeless, disgusting. He had succeeded, no more was necessary. He dug the knife into his neck and tore it round, severing the jugular, and threw the knife against the back wall.
Without a second glance at the man he had just butchered, he slid up the rusty garage door and slipped out into the night, the summer air cooling his overheated head. Fen turned into the darkness, leaving the corpse for the authorities and his remorse for the devil.