Copper coins stabbed the air. Stale old dried blood oiled the walls of the office. Lucid memories lingered in Arthur’s mind. Blond hair bounced in the office, and the color red shone brightly among the blur. Wispy blond strands floated in the current without a sound. Arthur's posture bends over the flushing money, click click click. Fingers grope from behind him and underneath the layers of clothing, a soft petting motion.
All the cash was real, unfortunately. All five thousand of it. Grim would hate another blond in the hotel. Her competitive nature creates cravings that even I can't quench. The Greeks don't count, they're not natural.
Grim moves her hands from below the waist, her voice breathy and unhinged. She wants another corpse and hopes to forget her unrealized pain. Nails dig past the layers of clothing adding slight pressure on the skin. Amata made Arthur uneasy, but not because of Grim. There was something left unsaid by the look in her eyes. She was here for someone, and it wasn't good. Moira couldn't collect a rich voyeur to save her life.
“She's ready to be taken under my wing, Arthur. Moira needs direction, she is right at the cusp.” Grim rubbed Arthur softly. He seemed unimpressed, body stiff as a doornail.
“Moira? She's a child. This was pure luck.” He moves his hands away from the money and twists his body to face her. “I didn't know you wanted competition, darling.”
Grim’s eyes light up and laugh, playfully resting on his chest, “There's no competition between us. She's mine. Moira still landed the roost for us.”
He smirks, “Grim, you want a mirror, a toy. Some people are born this way. You and I, most of the hotel. She's a tourist.” He puts his hand at the nape of her neck and squeezes it. “Careful what you wish for love. I am not talking about Moira. There's another blond in the hotel.”
The brightness from Grim's face wilts to paleness. Her dead eyes shifted and her voice changed from the breathy softness to a venom.
“You don't plan on replacing me with that wench.”
Her change in tone is part of our entanglement. Love the way she looks when she's flustered. Her schemes for revenge budding beneath her callous heart. Shift of her breathing shallows to slither.
Grim looks at the money, “Moira is playing coy, soon enough she'll be part of the hotel. Besides, she looks at me in the way you used to and it feeds me differently.”
Arthur moves his hand below her head and pulls on her hair, “Don't you love it when others bend the knee, my pet?”
He tugs and she gasps, “You'll know if I replace you, Grim.”
Arthur grazes his mouth on hers and skirts the brim of her upper lip with his tongue. She weakly closes her eyes and parts her lips before he releases her.
“Say we do things your way. Moira hasn't shown us she's capable of handling a situation on her own without your guidance. If she can't do this alone, I'll allow you to put her under your wing. If she does, we let her roam free.”
“She's ready and will be after that wench. I'm certain of it. Don't deny me that pleasure, Arthur. We all have our vices. Your cruelty to me is not warranted here.”
Arthur sighs, “My apologies, my love. There's enough messes for me to carry the burdens of. I don't want Malick traumatized by her corpse over your mistake. We'll check on her if she's gone too long. Keep an eye on that blond, Amata.”
Grim scoffed, pushing him out of the way, “How about you let me worry about that, love? You just count the money. There will always be money.”
Arthur turns from Grim's face smiling, flushing the bills. His posture raised in the dimly lit room where traces of their faces fade to blotched murky neptunes.
Oh, what seeds we sow.
Moira pulled her smock over her undergarments in the laundry room. Other housekeepers surrounded her. Pack animal mentality. Hands are worn from the tedious detached work, withered rodent eyes. Makeupless carcasses tirelessly worked in unison. Without a voice, sounds of garments flowed through the air. White, black, and brown sheets moved up and down crinkling without a care. Moira swallowed watching them move and delusionally thought it was louder than them. Her face flushed ears still ringing from the alarm clock.
A tap on her shoulder, she swished dramatically, thinking she was under attack. Hands into the air, but the thing towering over her didn't budge. Shadows make shapes, and the shapes aren’t real.
"Jesus, Moira. Did you drink any coffee before you arrived?" His voice was stern, but less annoyed than usual.
Arthur. It was just Arthur. He began tapping his foot impatiently waiting for an answer. Any answer. The longer he waits the crueler he becomes.
"I took a few sips...I am a little hungover." Moira muttered carefully unable to judge his emotions. His face was relaxed which seemed odd at six in the morning. Before he sleeps he's usually less chipper and this was alarming. Maybe, Moira thought, he had finally warmed up to her.
"You're taking the day off. There's someone waiting for you. It's surprising to me you haven't told Grim about this new gig you landed. I must say, I am impressed." Arthur placed his arms over her shoulder. "How did you do it? Don't tell me, Bosch put you up to this...Grim would kill you if she knew..."
She turned her head up to stare at him. Last night was lost on her, visions of the morning had become faint whispers. Someone. Her head distorted the imagery of strangers in the street. In a new light, Arthur changed before her eyes there wasn’t the typical coldness. Beneath his eyes, she saw a personality hidden. What in the absolute fuck is going on. Moira shook her head stuttering, "I am sorry, w-w-what?"
Arthur grinned, "I knew it. Grim told me you would play coy. Listen, you can tell us the details later. She IS waiting. I am curious how much you can take from her." He moved his arm away from her and a look of disgust came over his face. "That smock. Tell me you brought anything to wear."
Moira moved her feet and a wash of anxiety went through her bones. She turned away from him and looked at the housekeeper rodents carrying on as usual. Hyper focused on the craft of the clean. For once in her life she wanted that job. The infinity spiral. Clear expectations without any surprises. A place to numb the lightning jolts in her head. In auto pilot she doesn’t have to think because she can quiet her nerves. Garments raise and fall like suicidal poets.
"No. I haven't brought anything to wear, Arthur. I forgot it was today." Moira lied. She couldn't imagine what the accidental job was or if he was fucking with her. She was waiting for the shoe to drop. Arthur's face to turn like a rotten egg. Instead he placed his hand over his eyes and loudly sighed. Panic opened the door to her head and walked through her.
"What are you wearing underneath it?"
Moira pulled her smock over her head and exposed herself in a black slip. No bra and no panties. Her long black socks reaching underneath her knees with her black Chelsea boots. She could feel the housekeepers watch her and the exposed feeling of her limbs. It felt abandoned to stand here where everyone was watching her choices. Moira didn’t like the idea she could be judged without protection.
"Take off the socks and boots." Arthur pressed his hand over his mouth. His brow curled, wrinkles migrating with his expression. Head slightly down judging her entire appearance. Sizing her up and down and with a nod he grabbed her arm. "This will have to do. Don't fuck this up for us."
"You're talking differently, did something happen?"
Arthur turned to look at Moira cold in the eyes. "Oh, I am sorry did I say something that you didn't like, Miss Moira?" He grabs her arm and twists the skin hard. "There isn’t time to discuss the situation further. I imagine you’re late to your date. Do you even remember her name?”
Pain from his hands felt familiar, and she imagined Grim whispering into her ears. Her coaxing was convincing because the way some men are and she hated the way his nostrils curled when he spoke, worse than her childhood past, the cult. Part of her is convinced that he couldn’t handle the attention. Arthur lives in twilight, where shadows can’t be seen.
Moira froze at the word " name" and pulled his hand away from her arm. "Tami?" Fear crossed her brain and she began to breathe heavy as if she was about to vomit. Tami, the one she fucked over for Grim. Tami, the one she hadn't seen since that night.
Arthur leaned in close to her face blowing hot air on her lips. "No! Miss Sultana is with a very dangerous person right now. If you see her make yourself invisible. You fucked up on that one, but after today we are letting it slide."
"She's alive?" Moira chirped up standing next to him. Waves of relief flushed through her body at the thought she survived. There was this part of her that believed Tami would forgive her. It was a wrong reaction. Moira was still naive to think she hadn't poked the bear. She was alive, alive, alive. Words spoke to her with poetry. She didn’t go to the Yellow Room where others disappear forever.
Arthur frowned, "Did you not listen to me, you dumb bitch? Make yourself invisible. She could kill you. Follow me, we're heading to the elevator. Keep up. I don't care if your feet are cold."
Arthur moved quickly with Moira following close behind. His lean frame slanted into a fluid shroud gliding along the surfaces of the floor. He was walking with a sharp edge that could amputate.
Along the hallways, green and golden colors slurred in Moira's mind. Her legs tender with every move trying to stay behind him. Overcome with grief, Moira’s limbs trembled softly. Surprises are met with danger, Mike would say. Memories glowed into her brain violently, faces of dark, mud colors materialized. At first glance, none of them seemed rich. They didn’t want her enough to stalk her at her place of work. All of them appeared to be men. Mohawks, shaved, thick glue, pink, yellow, green. Make up black grease.
The grand staircase was met with an uncomfortable emptiness. People were still at the bar creating a ruckus by the sounds of drinks. Alcohol pouring into crystal glassware made a special sound. Loud thrums, a whale’s moan. Laughing would end when they died. Her eyesight still hazy focused on the sounds of glasses clinking and the waves of voices. At six am where sleeping dogs lie.
Mister E stood by the elevator as Arthur turned to look at Moira venomously, "Now, pay attention. She's in room 339. I don't care what you do as long you take from her. Report back when you are done."
Moira nodded her head slowly and Arthur moved out of her frame. Pencil thin body falling through the cracks on the floor. He went somewhere fast because her brain was too slow for this action. Mister E smiled, and lead her into the elevator. He carefully moved her shivering body to reach the panel.
"Have you seen her, Mister E?" Moira squeaked.
He turned his face to her, "Everything has a price. None of which you have to give." And patted the top of her head the way you do for your child. Shortly after, he pressed the number three. "Do not worry, Miss Moira. There are things that belong to us and when they're taken it changes you."
Moira frowned, "Yeah, sure thing." What the fuck does that even mean, Mister E? Fuck you and all your stupid riddles. Moira crossed her arms watching the numbers change, and this time it landed on the correct floor in one go. She wanted to strangle him with that answer. An entire morning ruined due to these unforeseen circumstances. Anxiety swelled in her throat, the feeling of wide cotton balls. Little strands lodged at the back of her mouth. Her jaw clenched waiting for the door to slide. Without a word between them she stormed out of the elevator. This better be fucking worth it.
Turning to the right she went sprinting until she stopped at room 339. Her vision spiraled into a nightmarish haunt. Mike warned you about surprises at the hotel. This was self slaughter. Something about the quiet of the room made her gag. Slow, steady breaths. Let them turn into a rhythm. Listening to the slow sounds, she let the waves of anxiety fall. Hand fully formed around the metal handle and she swung it open. Two lamps on. Red rose petals. White mesh.
"There you are." A familiar voice whispered with grain.
Cold hands on Moira's neck and the door behind her slammed. Arm around her neck tight. So tight. Make it stop. Her skin. It's soft. Pristine. Taller. Who the fuck-
Without a choice, the hotel becomes her home.
Cold water splashed onto her face violently. Her eyes shot awake as I ashed my cigarette over her breasts. She began to wiggle her limbs, but her slender arms and legs were tied to the bed. Watching her squirm was delightful. A bit of the burn from the ash smoldered before going out on her skin. It's a wonder that you hadn't noticed who Moira was at GIRLS NIGHT. A collector for wicked games, apparently. She was the bottom feeder pretend hunter. A game of make believe for cheap coin. Her hands were too rough to be pampered. Money changes the skin, self care was a precious resource.
Her youthful glow can’t sustain because of the scars.
You thought she might scream, so you shushed her with your voice box. She breathed, her chest panting. You watch her chest raise and fall in unison with her breath. Her eyes squint as if she's about to speak. She pauses in silence staring at you in disbelief.
"How did you find me?"
I laugh and sit next to her. My fingers touch her cheek, "You're very bad at this. I recommend a different career."
She huffed, "Okay, that didn't answer my question. How. Did. You. Find. Me?"
Hard eye roll. I smack her cheeks playfully. "Oh, you're just too cute when you're upset. It's a wonder they keep you around here."
"Shut the fuck up Amata. If you're going to fuck me just get it over with. I have shit to do. I hadn't realized torturing me was going to make you hunt me down." She grimaced at me like I was disgusting to look at and I liked that even more. Her face was contorted, but it didn't hold that special excitement for me. Pressing my cigarette into my mouth, I blew out smoke. Watching it curl in the air, I let the silence between us go on for a few minutes.
"It's adorable that you think we're going to fuck." I leaned in smelling her morning’s breath, bitter with shit coffee. "I am not going to fuck you, I might kill you. I might keep you alive. I might talk to you."
"Kill me with what? Your hands? I know people who will come for me. There's cameras everywhere in the hotel. Good luck with that, Amata. Fuck you."
The warmth of her skin wasn't enough. Standing up in silence, I eyed my hammer on the floor. It's unlikely she even knew what type of hammer this was or why it was special. Ignorant little cunt. We could make this hurt a little.
"Where's Tami, Moira? I'll only ask once."
"The fuck if I know? Somewhere in the hotel. She's not dead! I didn't kill her. I kinda liked her. "
When others think they can compete against this level of admiration it’s almost endearing. Staring into her eyes, I can’t contain the joy of seeing her struggle. Tipping my head to the right, I glance at the hammer. Without a word, the hammer connects to my hand. Weight angled at the correct curve can create a bit of destruction. Arching my shoulder for the swing, I slap it into the lamp at the bedside. Feathers fluff up into the air, red rose petals float. God is my slut, make her beg.
"I swear. I fucking don't know where Tami is. Please. You can take me. I'll give you whatever you want. I don't know her. I don't know where she is!"
Still action frame freezes with my hands still on the handle of the hammer. "Jesus fuck. You're really the bottom feeder. Just as useless as that man downstairs. It’s a shame, you could be better than him.” Another swing into the base. Glass shards explode underneath. Love that sound. Ruptured ice. Lamp shade intact about the only thing that is. Moira’s face cringes as little pieces strike the top of her head. Not enough to make her bleed.
"Please. I'll be your piggy. Anything you want. I promise."
Repulsed, I pull away from her. I take a pillowcase and shove it in her mouth. Dropping the hammer to the floor, and discarding it for now. "No more talking. Read the room. You're not invited to speak."
Moira muffles a squeaky cry. Standing up you trace her skin with her eyes, Moira is weak. It’s not fair to her, but life isn’t fair. "So, here's the deal. You have to die. I can't have people think you know me. It's not personal. I'm sure you make a great in between for whatever fuckery you do a half assed job at. " The end of my cigarette, I put it out on her chest. Sternum. Between the breasts. Moira is screaming at the act of her burning flesh as if she hasn't fucked harder than that. Her fake screams, her fake little act will only work on a dense bloke. Or a drugged out Tami. She had to have been drugged, Tami was a killer.
White snow tenses between your fingers, and you let a line drop on her forehead. Come together for a dose that lasts forever. "Don't move, puppy. Or I'll pluck your eyeballs out." Moira's face goes completely still, eyes closed. You snort the entire line in a vacuum motion. "Good girl."
Eyes roll to the back of your head, you pinch your nostrils together and suck in. You see her squirm now, and stare at the sledge hammer on the floor. Curious. As infuriating it is that she captured Tami, it wouldn't make sense to flatten her body. She's just the messenger. The pain should drive her insane and teach her consequence before she dies. A message for the hotel.
"Now, where was I? Oh, that's right. Torture. We love a good bitch who listens. I don't know why you collect for The Yellow Room or if you even know the agenda. All I know is that your opinions don't matter. You don't matter." She's crying now, tears are staining her cheeks. It's pitiful and you can't blame her. Some bitch fell from the sky and found you. Knows your name, where you work and convinced the enemy that they were lovers. She has no idea how money pays.
"Instead, I decided to be generous. As a disposable, I plan to use a fuck machine with a three inch diameter nine inch dildo, and fuck you with that to death. After awhile, I promise you there is a burn. It will be slow, but eventually you'll dry up. And you'll wish our anatomy hadn't. That you could cum forever." I grab her face with both hands and hold it locking eyes with her. "If your friends find you by pure luck, and you're not dead...fortune will be in your hands. If you come after me, I'll use this sledge hammer over there. By then, I suspect I'll be untouchable. You'll just to have to use your anguish on someone else. Now..."
I gingerly pull the pillowcase out of her mouth, and she's wailing. Nails on a chalkboard, dreadful. My hand whips back and slaps her. Sniffling. Slaps twice. Sniffling. Slaps three times. Stops.
"Pet, do I get a thank you?"
"...Thank you...Amata."
My face perks up, "Good good girl. I'll leave the pillow case out, so you can scream."
I let the silence cover my insides with power. Moira's awkward body squirms trying to escape the hunt. The want behind her delicate eyes ignites, loose strands of her humanity weaving away from her. Fingers down her chest slowly touching her breasts without sedition. A quiver in her eyes craves these small gifts of momentary worship. Submissives love to be exposed. Shadows of my imposing body paint lines over her bare skin. Slight nipple exhibition, my nails glide enough to identify pressure without cutting it. Luscious long blond hair curls on her skin with feathery tickles creating goosebumps and sensations understood. Whipping my hair behind me, I look down at my pet. I want to abandon her in the darkness, chained. Despair is a danger signal when love is lost.
Behind our bodies the fuck machine laid angled at her cunt. Darkness festers inside of me, the way a trigger pulls before it ignites. I press my hands against her body and push my weight off of her. My mind wonders if she can see the monsters of the motherland in me. Young ones fight these battles for no one. Unable to conquer for themselves their flames fade. On the ground I crawl, my dress falls to the side towards this contraption.
Gentle, my hands move her slip up over her thighs exposing her flower. Her foie gras. Bareness of the skin with silky shine. Ceremonial agar twirling around my fingers. Make Moira believe she could get set free before it’s too late to stop the pain.
Squeezing the bottle to a faint empty, the wide bright pink dildo wiggles on the gun attachment. Sticky excess, a grey film washes over the object adding another layer. At the correct angle, its slimy surface tickles her labia. Slob wet, a monster’s drool. Press a button behind me crouched, and off it goes.
She breathes with the tempo of the dildo as minutes pass between us. Squish noises of the sloshing in her hole fill the emptiness with songs of her belly. I hear the sounds it makes by the rumble from the machine. No longer a care in the world. My mind not wandering elsewhere. Taking stock of the sounds, the imagery and its painted sonnet.
Cat walking to the sink and the small square mirror. Soap. Lathering the suds all over my hands and my arms, I wash the lube off my skin. The machine background noises and her murmuring between moans. Her voice echoing the way bitches do in the dungeon. Her solo kink act pretending the world is watching her. Helpless good girl. Behind the imaginary screen, an incel is hunched over busting a load. Rose red petals playfully bounce behind her. An offering of her virginity, a ritual created by the sins of man.
Sometimes, if they catch me on a good day, I can be too damn nice. Holding the remote in my right hand, I press the two level and the gun goes faster. Abrupt, secure. The tensions of her loins feel the pressure. Her facial expressions reflect themselves in the bathroom mirror. In contact with her jaw, her teeth makes a see-saw effect. The louder she grunts her body is escorted by pain.
Readjusting my make up, I stand back looking at my skin. Money does pay, I didn't lie to her. I touch my face letting the nails graze my poreless cheek. Perfection. Thoughts tornado into my brain of dominating those whores for Luxe. My violence would be given to them, but not wasted on her. Patting my hands dry, I begin collecting the rest of my belongings. Press three, for safe measure. The splatter of her hole excites my nerves.
Standing in the glow of the one lamp light towards the door, I turn to face her. She is moaning louder now. I know there’s no turning back. She looks like a plastic sex doll stretched out and empty of feeling. Some men love it when they have dead fishes. The ultimate objectification.
"This is just the beginning, Moira."
Thirty minutes. No? An hour. It could've been an hour. There’s no clock in the room to tell time. You've screamed the loudest blood chilling cry dating back to every horrific film you've ever seen...and no one came. Not one fucking soul. You cursed Amata's name every minute by the minute. It was unlucky because you are and have been since you could last recall.
When the scream came from your chest, it felt as though your jaw unlocked, popped right off. Resonating down from the ridges of your throat, you released it. In an unearthly way, at every crevice, the bones, and the joints vibrated uncontrollably.
A medical snake camera watches the movement of your insides. An anglerfish with pins and needles internal. Sweet painful prickling at your olfactory senses. Wishing for the scream to pierce the deaf behind these walls. Offers for the dead.
Millions of flowers bloom from the warmth around your loins. Hotness from the kaleidoscope misalignment of your eye, burns bright. Deranged, barely able to slow down your breathing. Just a little longer, you tell yourself. Endurance of an Indian relay horse. Flashes of white light blast over the ceiling into fractals. By the minute, your body changes. Sweat begins to casually swim down your brow. The feeling of unrepairable loss, tells you lies. This uneasy persistence washes over your chest. It’s anxiety. Head brushed to the side, drugged out of existence from the lust of this machine. Go. Pause. Go.
Your mind wanders aimlessly without linear traction. At first, you remember her plump lips, her words stir a feeling within you. A touch of expensive silk. The haunt beneath those vacant eyes feels unreal. Private doors open from your chest, your innocence, ripped up ribbons. The detuned radio of your psyche breaks the pattern between belief and absurdity. Apathetically, your limbs stretch away from your body to this other world. Zig zagged unable to repair. In a strange split dimension the bodies pull from you. There’s one, two, three of you. An accordion of many bodies lifts into the air. None of this can be real. It happens all so fast.
At the corner of your eye, blood drips from the inners of your labia from the fiery monster. You're not here. This isn't happening. Thick morning forest fog covers the floor. Spores from your mind take shape with the blankness on the wall. Leafless tree branches sculpt shadows into otherworldly designs. You cannot look away.
A configuration of your pain displays from all those who've wronged you. Fractals fly into their eye sockets along their long veins and into the tree. Cults scream differently when they die. Following the veins you see how the creeping vines twist into a rope. Blinking. Fisherman's rope swings with a single tire. Nostrils flare open to the smell of burning flesh and hair. Go. Pause. Go.
Blinking. Pain aches, a cog in the machine. Fractals kaleidoscope from the branches and they disappear completely. One, two, three of you with it. Your head turns to the side, dreams of Mother Goose and nursery rhymes fill your mind. Fairy tales. Ribbons loosen in your cellar door and burn. Ablaze, the pieces of you wilt into ash. It was fast the way that part of you died. Pig tail ribbons cover the ground with an infestation similar to hungry ants. Mommy can't come. Mommy won't come. A vision in the center of a dumpster, the only place where it's warm. Cigarettes taste better than trash. Its filth reminds you of the disease of where you came from. Slip on the mask, a little longer. Just to forget. Tears stain your face, but you can’t stop it. Go. Pause. Go.
Laughing absolves your sinister brain with each twinkle of blood lost. Amata never lied. You feel the shrill coolness of your skin from the blood loss and sweat, laughing hoarsely. It doesn’t matter about the person watching from the cameras any longer. You don't believe in them. Slabs of spit slide past your lips down your chin, and you're thirsty. Endurance of an Indian relay horse. Freakish nymphomaniac hellish wet dreams. It breaks you, and you pray to die. You hold onto the bed and scream, "Come get me, you whore!" Begging for the silence to end. Begging for anything more than a dial tone.
Door rips from the hinges and falls backwards into the hallway. A shadow stands away from the lamplight and slides into your peripheral vision. Grim's face warps at the display of your slaughtered animal carcass. You're the free use, fuck doll and this bitch is a ghost. Giggling from your chest, you laugh with the hallucinations, fractals spider out of her face.
Arthur from behind her picks up the fuck machine and rips it from the wall. He throws it creating a crater where there wasn't one, splintering the hardwood. Finger on button, knife out. Grim's hands on the handle walking to your corpse.
"Kill me." You whisper with rasp. It made sense in your head. You found nothing for them. It would be easier to cut loose.
She doesn't answer and cuts at the rope on your ankles. Body goes limp, blood oozes from your hole bubbling onto the ground. Grim's skin glows in ethereal light. She makes a sad sound of despair each time she cuts the rope from the bed. She's not here. Amata killed you.
Grim scoops your body from behind lifting your shoulders onto her lap.
"Shhh...I am here my sweet girl. I came as fast as I could." Her nails brush over your hair. Twilight eyes stare into your face. Warmth, a lie. It can't be real from her.
Grim barks at Arthur, "Fix a salt bath. Hurry. We have to save what we can."
Arthur runs over to the claw and turns on the water, plugging the tub with a thunk. He rips open an Epsom salt box from under the sink and pours the remains of it into the tank. It puffs out salt and he leans against the tub whispering, "Shit."
"Do you think I'd let some bitch kill you? You have more to learn. I won't let them harm you again." Grim spoke, she wasn't expecting an answer hopefully. You're drooling on her legs, tongue flicking it out of your mouth. You want to sew your hole shut where no one can touch you again. Grim rubs her hand over your head, "This part is going to hurt for awhile, but I promise it will be worth it."
Arthur walks into the room and lifts Moira in his arms, grunting. As she rises in his grip part of her labia falls to the bed, a huge mouthful of bloody chewed up breakfast steak spit out. Her original form destroyed. Moira doesn't scream, her eyes tell the world that she has left the building. He carefully moves her body into the bathroom. Arthur gently sets her down. From behind Grim she takes sharp scissors, cuts off the slip, and it falls to the floor. Pinch is steadying Moira and keeping her from falling directly onto the blade.
"Now, Arthur." Grim throws the scissors into the room and holds her.
Arthur lifts Moira again, and sets her into the warm tub, as she screams. They hold her down as Grim tells her she has to heal. Moira is trying to fight Grim and scratches her across the chest as she cries. Grim grabs her by the face to steady her.
"Listen to me. I know it hurts. I know. Listen. You're with your chosen family now. Pain has a price. We will be with you every step of the way." Grim pets Moira’s face and Moira falls into her hands.
Arthur turns and looks at Moira between her sobs, "Vengeance will change you. Don't worry, the hard part is over. It will feel good soon enough." Sobs turn to sniffles. Arthur pulls up his watch and checks the time, “Welcome to the Nine.”
So yeah, this is horrifying and I love it.