Graphic Deleted Scene Contains Spoilers.

“Hey. Go relax, girl. You earned it. Love you, girly.”  

“You too,” said Melissa before ending the call. She placed her phone on the sink and turned back toward the steaming hot flow of refreshing water. She was just lifting her first leg over the side of the tub when she felt the cold stab of two dull, hard metal teeth on her neck, followed by the pulsing of electricity through her neck, chest, and arms. Her world went dark, and then, with a dull thud, her body hit the edge of the bath before falling limp to the cold, tiled floor.  

**  

The drive to the address given to Hann by the first officer on the scene was a short one, made briefer by their natural ability to enjoy one another’s company, each taking the other’s mind off the potential horrors that were to come.   

Pulling under the police tape held high by a tall, mocha-skinned officer, Hann put the car in neutral, turned off the key, and exited the vehicle. Before Hann could stand straight, a blonde woman with a slate grey suit and white blouse approached him.   

“Captain Hann? Detective Barbarossa. Pleasure.” Hann nodded.  

“What do we got?” he asked.   

“Single woman, she was dead when we got here, M.E. reckons about twelve hours. She was stripped, tortured, and set… Well. You’ll see. But I warn you, Captain, it’s not easy to look at.”  

“Thanks for the heads up, detective. I got it from here, ok?”   

She nodded, closed her notebook, and walked over to the small group of onlookers waiting eagerly for a glimpse of the corpse.  

“Look at these bastards,” complained Rande. “iPhones ready to livestream somebody’s dead body. When did we develop such a bloodthirsty appetite?”  

“Beats me. Give me the olden days of a man with a camera and some paparazzi with notebooks any day.”   

Nodding at the young female officer guarding the front entrance, Hann and Rande walked in and stopped in the open-plan living room to put on their latex gloves.   

“Nice place. I'll never understand how a young woman can afford a place like this.” Said Rande.   

The bathroom door opened fully in the far-left corner, and a young woman in a Blue Medical Examiner’s Office jacket stood and smiled at the new arrivals.   

“Captain Hann, Jimmy, It's been too long., even under such tragic circumstances.”  

They both smiled as they double timed it toward their colleague.  

“So,” asked Hann, unable to see past the woman into the bathroom. “What do we have here?" 

Cynthia Morgan closed her eyes, bowed her head for a moment, and stepped aside. Holding out a slim, caramel-colored hand, she said,  

“Come see for yourself.”  

**  

Dribbling onto the tiled floor, the stunned woman tried to understand what was happening, and looking at the strange, uninvited guest dressed head to toe in black, the dazed woman’s eyes began to tear up.     

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" Melissa said, trembling.    

"What? Don't you remember me? Your favorite girl at school?"    

"What are you talking about? I don't know you."    

Annabelle frowned mockingly, rubbing a curled finger beneath her eye, implying fake tears.     

"Boohoo! Melissa, the cow, doesn't remember me."    

The frightened woman sniffled loudly. Her confusion grew with each passing moment. Annabelle checked her watch, then smiled manically.    

"Oh, my God. It's story time. How cool. Are you excited?"    

"Fuck you."  Growled the naked woman, unaware of just who she was up against.  

"Fair enough. Now. Once upon a time, a small, skinny young girl who liked wearing black,” Annabelle said, tapping a bright red painted fingernail against her chest. “That’s me, see? And I wanted nothing more than to go to school, learn some stuff, and go home. But-"    

"Is there a point here, emo girl?"    

Emo girl? Who the fuck does she think she is? Annabelle thought as she clenched a tight fist and swung it with pace in a wide arc, ending with a smack against Melissa's face. The smashing sound echoed around t he small, square room. Melissa shook her head, her dazed, shocked expression displaying more remorse for her misplaced comment than any word or phrase could have.    

"May I continue?" Annabelle said condescendingly. "Why, thank you, cunt!"    

Melissa shook her head from side to side, trying in vain to halt the ringing that the punch had wrought in her ears.     

"OK. As I was saying... Once upon a time, a small, skinny young girl wanted nothing more than to go to school, learn something, and go home. But..." Annabelle paused dramatically, then smiled joyfully. "Yay! No interruption." Her smile was big, and her eyes glowed brightly.     

"But there was a bitch at school, who had tits already, no acne, and was an easy lay, which made her very popular and convenient for the young, hormone-fueled boys on campus. One day, Melissa, the whore felt it would be funny to bully the small, shy Cindy."    

The penny dropped.    

"You're that skinny shit, no-soap-Cindy? Well, fuck. That explains a lot."    

"Explains a lot. Yeah? I am not even done with the prologue. Believe me, your story is gonna go perky, bouncy tits up real quick. But not yet.” The woman in black stared quickly into the small oval mirror above the sink, smiled, and returned her gaze back at her quarry.  

“I'll be back in the pull of a jock's dick, hun," she said, smiling.  “Besides, I go by Annabelle now.”  

Melissa gazed around, desperately trying to concoct a practical means of escaping this person who obviously let some marbles slip between the incidents in school and today. Surely, every school has girls who push the envelope a little farther than they should. That wasn’t illegal last time she checked. Or, maybe it was, at least, unethical, immoral, and wrong.   

You’d think by now she would have gotten over it; I mean, how long is someone reasonably going to hold a grudge? She pondered. A long time, apparently.    

A minute or two later, the woman in the black sweat suit re-emerged in the bathroom with a stool. Wooden, and some two and a half feet high. Melissa watched her, half intrigued, half terrified. Who knows what this maniac is capable of, she thought. Annabelle placed the stool in the bathtub, ensuring it was nice and level.     

"Now. I can put you in the tub the hard way, or..."  

** 

The sight that greeted them was one of a poor woman burned to where the contracted flesh had contorted the limbs into spastic-looking postures, her head frozen forward and sideways to the neck, where thick, sinewy tendonous ligaments held their position with taut, painful precision. It appeared as if the flesh on her backside had melded onto the stool, and her twisted feet had done the same at the lower sides of the seat.    

Rande's eyes watered from the fumes, and Hann retched twice, the only product being dry, scratchy coughs. This was the worst scene Rande had ever been first on scene at. Hann turned solemnly to Rande. He recalled his first burn scene vividly.      

"I remember there was a serial jackoff by the name of Dick Cottingham. Heard of him?" Hann asked.    

"I think I heard something a while back. Didn't he do that one in Hasbrouck Heights, at some Quality Inn, or something?"     

"Yes, sir," said Hann. "Good memory. Thursday, May fifteenth, it was. Seville Hotel. The poor woman was on the bed, which the sick asshole had set fire to from underneath it before he skedaddled. But get this... sick fuck cut off her breasts and displayed them like trophies on the headboard." Han shook his head. "Google the crime scene pics if you never wanna sleep again."    

Rande shrugged, “It sounds like it was meant to be. I don’t sleep anyways.”     

"Oh, yeah! I forgot; I'm talking to Rip van Winkle’s nemesis."     

Rande shook his head. "Funny you should say that,” he said. “My God. What is with these assholes?"      

"You got me, Jim. Let's let Cynthia and the gang finish up, and then we’ll see what’s next. Sound good?”  

Rande nodded as they excused themselves and stepped outside for welcome fresh air.  

"Ever get sick and tired of all the killing, Cap?" said Rande. 

"Well," Hann was lost in thought for a second or two. " Not really. When I signed up for Homicide, I figured it would be a lot, but it's more the level of aggression and sickness that some people put into their crimes. Murder is one thing, but inserting things into and through the victim is a whole other level of psychopath." 

All Jimmy could do was agree. Never had truer words been said. 

**  

Melissa bowed her head and knew full well that the aggressor was most definitely in control. One punch had rendered Melissa incapable of resistance, and who knows what more she was capable of or planning to do next. For Melissa, that was too broad a quest to risk discovering an answer she was woefully ill-prepared to handle.   

Not to mention that Melissa was getting more confused, angry, and frightened by the second.   

"So? Do I have to use sparky?" Annabelle held up the device and triggered small, bright arcs of silver electricity. "Or are you going to play nice?"    

"What? That's all? Sit on the stool?"    

Annabelle nodded.     

"Yes, ma'am.” Annabelle looked at her victim up and down. “Naked."    

"Naked? What, are you some kind of bull dyke now?"  

The tormentor leaned in and held a small, metal object against Melissa’s neck, and a moment later, the woman collapsed to the floor.  The next thing that Melissa knew, she was sitting in the shower, and her head was pounding violently. Plus, she was naked as a bluebird, too dazed to think, and realized that, maybe, her usual smartass coping mechanism would not be appropriate considering the gravity of the current predicament.    

"Now. That was your fault, Mel-blister. Whose fault?"    

"Mine," Melissa whispered.    

"Sorry? Whose?"    

"Mine." This time, Melissa spoke clearly and with ample volume for her tormentor to hear.    

"Yay! Go, Mel! You can see that I have taped your feet tightly to the legs of the chair, and we have also taped your arms behind you at your elbows. So, to use an underrated expression, you are now, most definitively, up shit creek, and your paddle has been eaten and shit out by beavers... I made that last bit up."    

Melissa began shaking out of fear and the intense feeling of vulnerability.    

"Are you cold, popsicle?" Said Annabelle sweetly.    

Melissa nodded weakly, unsure if the goosebumps were from nervousness or if she was cold.  

"Aw! Let's take care of that, shall we?"    

Leaning past the naked prisoner, Annabelle grabbed the chrome-colored faucet and turned it slightly to one side. With a spit and gurgle, the water trickled down from the shower head, which Annabelle had taped to the ceiling directly above Melissa.     

"Fuck!" Said Melissa sharply. "That's cold."    

"Oh! Deary me. Did I turn it the wrong way? Aw! I am so not sorry." Annabelle spoke with sarcasm thick on her tongue, and Melissa shook more uncontrollably than before. The captor held a finger up as if she had had a brilliant idea.    

"I shall be right back. Don't go anywhere." As she spoke, she returned to the door and entered the next room. "That was a joke." She shouted behind her. Go anywhere you like."  

Within moments, Melissa could hear what sounded like ice being dispensed from a refrigerator. A minute later, she listened as her tormentor laughed, shaking a container of the frozen cubes as she reentered the bathroom.    

"Now. I felt like you were getting hot, and so..."    

Melissa began weeping solidly, her tears blending with the slow stream of water that scrawled down her head and body. Annabelle took a zip-lock back from her pocket and tipped some ice cubes into it. Gripping it firmly, she aimed her fist against the wall, repeating the action several more times. Many of the cubes fractured into smaller, wetter shapes. Then, she rubbed the bag of ice shrapnel over the woman's goosebump-covered neck, pending extra time around the face and shoulders.     

Within minutes, the trembling had become uncontrollable, and the numbness from the drenching, ice-cold water had triggered a level of pain deep in her bones that the poor girls had never thought possible.    

Her long, drenched, dirty-blonde hair clung tightly, adding only discomfort to the sides of her face, neck, and shoulders. Everything was now blurry, out of focus, and painful. Those were the only two realities she could discern. Everything else was a distant memory or dream.     

"Hey, Melblister. Looking a bit wet behind the ears, there." Annabelle sniggered, amazed at how good it felt having the woman who had caused her such anguish, pain, and discomfort for years under her control.     

"Remember when your idea of a laugh was to push my head into the toilet after you peed in it and flush the chain? Huh? I do. Cunt."     

No reply.     

"What? Lost your ability to talk? That's only cold water. Just wait till things start to... warm up." The way the water climbed up her toes, feet, and ankles, Melissa knew the plug was down. The cold intensified as her extremities soaked in the hellish, cold water.     

The next few moments passed quietly, almost silent, but for the dull, reverberating chattering of her teeth. With every second that staggered lethargically by, the pain and the fear of what was coming next grew exponentially. She couldn't even make out the soft, steady footfalls as her captor sneaked around between her random-paced sessions of mental and physical torment. Melissa's mind began to splinter, thoughts fracturing and pain increasing.     

The shock and fright of the capture would have been traumatic enough for most people, but considering how it happened there, in her safe space, her home from home. That realization had given way to the numbing, freezing, aching pain that enveloped her reality with razor-sharp electric needles tearing through every nerve and fiber in her body. She was fading now and fading fast.    

"Hi." The voice was familiar but far from welcoming. "Sorry, I was so long. I had to poop."     

The stranger laughed. "Ooh! You look cold." The young woman could not reply. Understanding what the aggressor was saying was all she could do.     

The next thing she heard was the squealing of a faucet being twisted. She knew that water was hitting her skin and that she couldn't feel it, meaning it was likely still icy cold.   

"Now. To show there are no hard feelings, I will warm you up a bit. Sound good?” teased Annabelle. Melissa could not answer.   

“I said, sound good?"   

Melissa resigned herself to whatever fate this angry woman had in mind. She was, by now, far too weak to offer any resistance, so she did what she could, producing a shallow, stammering grunt.    

The surge of pain that triggered inside Melissa's psyche as she sensed the first drops of quickly warming liquid made her prior bone-shaking atrocity seem like foreplay. In what felt like a half second, the sensation went from numb cold to burning, raging fire, with the intensity of the gods of old. Hades would have trouble conjuring pain like she was feeling now.     

Every drop of heated water that hit her previously frigid, now molten lava-feeling skin created more of a pain-filled chasm in her soul. She wriggled and writhed the best she could, but the pain devoured the energy she would have needed to compete even slightly with the screaming, deafening pain that was her world.                                                                                               

The chaotic sound of laughter flirted with her senses, rendering her mind incapable of rational discernment. Whatever had been done had thoroughly stripped her of all motor reflexes; the pain was now cerebral. Everything else was gone. The evil dominatrix stared at her victim; the sight of her sore, red skin made her smile. Something about the pain she could sense from her quarry brought her a sick sense of satisfaction.     

Meanwhile, all the poor, tortured woman could do was hang her head in despair, webs of elastic spit dribbling from her trembling, blue lips. She sighed a shallow, weak grumble as her abuser reached behind her and closed the tap. Annabelle stepped out of the room one last time, returning a minute later with a small red gas can.     

After ceasing the water flow completely, Annabelle simply admired her work. The loose-looking hot flesh, the pained expression etched onto the victim's face, all of it was perfect. She had to stare closely, for a moment, to ensure the prey was still breathing. She was, barely, and painfully, but she was.   

Annabelle took a small, white mask from her pocket and placed it over her mouth and nose before stretching the thin elastic straps over her head.     

"See this mask?" she asked the almost unconscious victim. "It's for the fumes. I'd get you one, but it wouldn't help, what with the flames and all."    

Focused and with a huge smile, Annabelle began trickling the viscous fluid over the poor woman's body. Starting atop her head and working down. The groans and moans were pitiful, and most normal folk would have felt at least a shred of pity for what the poor girl was enduring. Not Annabelle.   

She was cherishing each moment, basking in the fumes as she took one last glimpse at the tortured woman's unburned body. Melissa stared at her aggressor with weary, pained eyes, almost as if to ask again, 'Why?'  

Emptying the small gasoline can, Annabelle held a shiny silver zippo and flipped the top open. Smiling with each attempt, she tried igniting the wick with a snap of her fingers, as she had seen some do at bars and in the park, but she could not.     

"Aw, well. When in doubt..."    

Resting her fingertip on the wheel, she smiled at the poor waif on the stool, winked, and blew a kiss.     

"Ciao, Mel-blister. Say hello to your friends in hell."    

With that, she drew her finger against the spinning cog and watched a lone, flaring spark bring a, bright orange flame to life. Melissa's face turned to abject fear as the woman in black leaned closer until the gas collided with the dancing light, and the woman became engulfed in billowing flame. Melissa tried but could not scream for the shroud of burning heat that covered her face, turning strands of her hair into thick, waxy lines of molten fiber.    

The suffering woman trembled and convulsed, her skin stretching and bubbling under the intense heat. Parts began to split, sending trickling fluids down her chest like some medieval, barbaric human candle. The smell was awful, and Annabelle stepped back quickly into the adjoining room but never took her eye off the girl until she resisted no more, and her head fell still in resolute and painful mortification.    

Not ten minutes later, Annabelle turned on the cold water, dousing the last flickering flames she had wrought on the poor victim. Her job was done, and she was pleased.