#e.mathias

and in the back of his mind, he recalls also dull ache in the back of his skull-- a sort of pulling apart of the flesh that sits there, and a familiar sensation of blood on his fingers. a sound of complete horror that wasn’t his own-- in fact, he doesn’t recall saying anything at all as smaller, thinner fingers than his own palpated and recoiled.

You just looked at me, her voice said, you just looked at me and you didn’t say anything. You just looked at me like you were dead.

before he speaks, eli brushes a hand against the back of his head, feeling the ridges of a scar at the crown of his head that will perhaps never fade.

“As you all know by now, I don’t often enact physical punishments on my employees. I don’t think it’s an effective way to go about things unless absolutely necessary, and thus-- I don’t.” the figure knelt in front of him is oddly despondent-- or perhaps he’s just grown tired from the stress of rope pulling his wrists back tightly to his ankles. the rounded angle of his chest, puffed out no doubt painfully, must be exhausting. “But on a rare occasion, my philosophy fails me."

eli’s hands are clasped behind his back and nestled into his left palm is a small, smooth object. upon further inspection, one would find an oblong handle decorated with white marbling. “I set these rules to keep you all safe. And when I see someone breaking these rules, I don’t simply view it as a failure of that person. I view it as a failure of my own, as well.”

“And if I were to allow someone to be a danger in this place that I’ve asked you all to call home, I would be failing every one of you every day.” leather gloved fingers unclasp and one hand rests on mathias attano’s shoulder. “Yesterday, it came to my attention that one of my men-- a boyevik, a trusted rank among us-- stabbed Igor Vasile through the hand, by his own admission, for no reason above mild annoyance. Is that right, Mathias?”

the yes is feeble.

“In return, two things will happen. First,” his other hand lifts to hold up one finger, the other four securing the object to his palm. “Mathias will be stripped of his rank. He’ll be among the Shestyorka and will be treated as such. This is the lowest rank that a man can fall to before he is excommunicated.”

“Secondly,” another finger raises and the object still stays firm, though one may be able to discern the distinct appearance of a hilt towards the top of it now, “Mathias will have to sacrifice a part of himself in order to account for the damage he’s done to Igor. If he can’t respect the words of the family he’s sworn to protect, then I don’t see it fit that his words should be respected.” 

“I’m going to cut his tongue out.” he adjusts his grip and a click cues the release of the switchblade. mathias doesn’t move underneath his other hand, but eli vaguely registers a quiet i’m sorry and a promise of loyalty-- though he doesn’t respond. his fingers clasp around mathias’ jaw, thumb and middle finger pressing at either side to force it open. 

he reaches between mathias’ parted lips, brushing against his teeth along the way to grasp at the writhing muscle. even through his gloves, eli can feel how dry mathias’ mouth is with anticipation. the cut is quick and easy-- like butter enriched with tough tendons. the leather soaks up the deep red blood and for a moment, so much of it spills out over the cusp of orange stained teeth that eli believes he’s cut too deeply into the floor of mathias’ mouth. a cold sweat drags down the length of his back in a split second instance of true fear.

and yet when he sees a yarn-thick vein holding the mound of flesh firm, he wonders how his audience would react if he kept cutting deeper and deeper until the traitor was left with nothing but a set of top teeth and a gaping hole for a throat.

with one final pulling apart of flesh, eli pulls the appendage away. his eyes catch mathias’-- empty in the dim, basement light. 

he doesn’t attempt to say anything.