You Should Have Kept To Yourself

The man woke up to a buzzing sound. His vision was blurred not only because he was waking up, but also because of the hit he suffered to his head and the blood that was dripping from his scalp into his eyes.

He could not discern what the sound was, although he knew it was coming from behind him. He tried to turn around to see what was the source of the sound, but could not do so: he was tied to a chair. His legs were independently tied to the chair using duct tape.

His back also hurt. Were the buzzing sound and his pain connected?

He could not discern where he was. All he could see was a poorly lit area of the room he was in. There were some concrete walls, yet that was it. There was no furniture, no decor in his sight. Nor was there anyone else.

The area was humid, slightly cold. He must be in a basement, he thought. Aside from dumb criminals, no one ever brought a kidnapping victim on the upper floors of a building…

He attempted a very timid "hello." No one responded to him. The sound continued.

He tried to rough his way out of the chair. The buzzing sound came to a halt and a small cloud appeared around him. It smelled of blue raspberry.

"If I were you, I would stop moving and remain extremely quiet."

It was the voice of a woman, which came from behind him. The man could now discern her presence. She inhaled once more from her vape stick and exhaled her smoke. Slowly, she got up and walked around him. She silently stood in front of him, staring down.

She pulled a small stool from behind him, grabbed a branding iron, as well as a blowtorch, and sat down in front of him. She was less than two feet away from him. As she lit the blowtorch and started warming up the iron, the man wept. "Please stop," the man begged. "I do not understand why I am here. This must be a mistake!"

The woman growled menacingly and put down the branding iron, out of the man's reach.

"This," she said as she got up and slowly walked away, "is your reeducation." She came back a moment later with a series of pictures. "What reeducation?" asked the man. "Have a look," she said as she showed him several messages he sent to various women.

All of them showed him sexually harassing women online. Catcalling, making unsolicited advances, sending unsolicited dick pictures, even porn. It was all there. The man stared vividly and blurted out, "I have freedom of speech." To this, the woman retorted, "That does not mean freedom from consequences."

She silently stood in front of him. He was expecting her to hit him, punch him, slap him. He was expecting her to become violent with him, beat the shit out of him. She stood perfectly still for several minutes.

Eventually, she dropped the pictures on the floor next to her and she leaned over him. While she ripped his shirt open, she whispered "you think you are untouchable when you are behind a keyboard, and that you can say what you want, you can send what you want, without any consequences. I am the consequences."

The woman picked up the blowtorch and the branding iron, which she started heating. When the iron was red hot, she turned off the blowtorch and applied the iron onto the man's skin. 

Aside from the sound of flesh burning, and the man screaming, nothing else could be heard.

The man wept uncontrollably as the scent of burned human flesh mixed with the surrounding humidity. The woman dropped the branding iron on the concrete floor, always making sure it was out of the man's reach.

"And now, for the final touch," she said as she pulled down his shorts, leaving him only wearing his boxer shorts, socks, and shoes. If the last ten minutes could be of an indication, the man knew he was not going for a good time this time either.

He could not see if the red-haired woman had a grin or not behind her face mask. Judging by the look of rage her green eyes were projecting, and judging by the tone she kept throughout their entire encounter, he assumed she was not taking any pleasure in this.

…

At a monument found on Main Street, around 5 AM, amidst the light mist, police were already investigating a crime scene. The area around the statue was sealed off, and the staff was taking pictures of the whole environment.

Some officers were carefully inspecting the victim, a man of unknown age, who was tied up to the base of the statue.

Aside from his bloody boxer shorts, he was wearing nothing. He was sitting in a puddle of what was seemingly his blood. His wrists were tied together behind his back with duct tape, to which a sealed Ziploc bag was attached. It contained various pieces of paper. His legs and ankles were all wrapped together in gray duct tape as well.

His hands and feet were severed posthumously.

His eyes were grossly stitched together, and so were his lips.

"Inspector," one of the officers said, rushing to the senior officer on site. "You should come see this." The inspector, who was talking to someone else, excused themselves and followed the officer. They knew better than to ignore their colleagues, especially when they likely found something worthy.

They both stood beside the victim, overlooking his back. A crime scene technician carefully removed the Ziploc bag, while another gently pushed the victim forward, to have a better look at his back.

The victim had a message tattooed on his back. Despite the rain, they could tell the dry part of the tattoo was made after the victim died.

The tattoo read, "This man is another human trash who does not understand consent and believes women owe him everything and must obey him. Instead of choosing to evolve as a better person, he chose to continue harassing them, often enough sexually."

The officer and the inspector both looked at each other and moved to the front of the victim. After taking pictures of the tattoo, the technician gently pulled back the victim in its initial position. The inspector took a deep puff out of their vape stick while staring at the man's forehead. The number "119" has been branded there. "What a horrible place to get branded," they said. "There is barely any fat in that body area, it must have been quite painful."

The other technician, who was looking through the bag, told the others, "these are screenshots of what he sent women. There is a lot of graphic, disturbing stuff in there. … Our vigilante also left us a note."

The inspector, wearing nitrate gloves, carefully took the note and read it out loud:

"Tic tic toc. If you are reading this note, it means you have found my 119th reeducation specimen. Be aware, the task was successful. The man will no longer harass women. In the Ziploc bag, you will find proof incriminating him. If you need to compare his anatomy with some of the pictures in the screenshots, you will find his hardware at the usual resting place. I also sent a copy of this to the local news. Educate your men or I will continue to reeducate them."

As the inspector finished reading the note, one of the technicians cut off the stitches holding the lips together and gently opened the victim's mouth, revealing the man's penis.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Story © Eve F. R. Kirchner