The hard part was over. Now it was time for the pain.

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I had already painstakingly picked the lock, which took far longer than expected, most likely due to the fact that I could no longer feel my finger tips from all the nerve damage, and I had already sought out my weapon of choice, which was a brick.

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I had already waited patiently for him to inevitably walk through the door at 9pm.

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I had already hit him over the head with my brick, waited for him to fall to the ground where I had already laid a large sheet, and I had already dragged his body to the centre of the room.

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I had already stripped him of his clothes and rolled him onto the metal table that laid pretty much flat to floor. It had thick leather straps, which were in perfect placement for human limbs, and one at which I could hoist to waist-height with just a few easy pulls of a lever.

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I had already searched through the "favourites" box and picked out 3 tools to work with and I had already placed them neatly in a row on a second-table just next to him.

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I had already waited so long for this, and now…

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Now comes the pain.

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"Uuugggghhh…" He was finally regaining consciousness. "…Wha?…Wha is hiss?…Wha's habbenin?" I couldn't help but chuckle as he tried to talk with his mouth strapped open and his tongue full of leather.

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"74." I said. A strange smile began forming over my fully-scarred face.

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"…Ugh?…Wha?"

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"74." I said again. My tone matched that of a psychotic child. My one good eye met his as I reached for my first tool…

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A hammer.

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"No…No! Blease! Don't-"

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I cut him off with the first whack of the hammer. It was perfect. Right on the tips of his fingers. He screamed and gargled in his own saliva while I repeated the action, making sure I hit all 10 at least twice.

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"74, 74, 74…"

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"Wha?! Wha la huck are you on abou?! Hucking 74!"

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"74, 74, 74…"

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"74! 74! You hucking hychopath! Wha la huck?!"

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My next tool, was the whip.

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I pondered for a moment on where to use it, then I thought, for negative nostalgia reasons, I'd work on the face.

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With each and every painfilled swish, I screamed, "74!"

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The third and final tool I wanted to use, a corkscrew, was still covered in yesterday's dried blood.

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My blood.

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I held the corkscrew to his right eye, pining the lids open with my forever numb fingers, as I leaned in close to his ear.

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"74, motherfucker…" I flashed him one last smile before pushing that sharp, curly spiral into his soft and squishy cornea, watching it pop.

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He was still alive after I'd finished. He was still moaning as I dragged myself to the open door. And he was still choking and spitting up blood as I finally stepped out of his basement, 74-days after my abduction.