The deed is done.
The body is dismembered, the pieces burned, the ashes scattered across the countryside of several different states. His mask has been made, the newspaper clippings all from the day he died. White paint to cover the red tint left by the drops of his blood mixed into the papier mache paste. Mask 35 was broken, but that isn't an issue; it would've taken its place on the wall of my trophy room, regardless, just as the thirty-four others have.
He fought and died admirably. Engaged in hide-and-seek in my own house. Shattered my arm with a heavy candlestick. Nearly broke my neck with the same improvised weapon. Stole my knife and planted it between my ribs, narrowly missing any organs. I've spent the last few days recovering from my injuries. My right arm is still useless. I had to cut the body with one hand. I thank Father for my ambidexterity. Also for speak-to-type software.
I cannot shake a sense of utter disappointment, however. He didn't scream. Not once. I slashed him, stabbed him, scalded him, and disemboweled him, but he didn't scream. Chewed through his lip to stop himself from doing so.
No matter. On to the next.