You want to use a knife. But you fear it might not produce the desired effect.

So you opt for a screwdriver, a plier,  and a gun.
***

You clip his earlobes. “This is for the pain you caused me.” You say, watching his eyes pop out of their sockets. They look like eggs laid by guinea fowls.
A bird, maybe an Owl, howls outside. You look out the window at the darkness enveloping the cemetery opposite your house, across the road. You think of the souls roaming around the cursed territory. The happy and sad souls. The sound and evil souls. The ones still finding purpose even after death. You wonder which of these categories your mother belongs to. You want to assume she is a happy soul, but something tells you she is not. That even in death, she is frightened. That her soul is disturbed.

You love speculating. It quells your perplexity about certain phenomena. The ones you will never comprehend.

“Biko… Please… In the name of God… Don’t do this.” His voice drags your eyes from the window.

“Oh!” You act like you have forgotten. “I’m sorry, I was distracted. So where did we stop?”

You twirl the screwdriver in your hand. “What about some drilling?” You chuckle lightly and wink at him.
First of all, you want to screw his eyes out. Like you want to watch the screwdriver drilling into his dark pupils, popping the delicate organ. You want to shudder at seeing blood slowly creeping into his iris.
So, you drill.
For some reason, he does not scream, and you are irritated. You drill deeper. “For all the love you denied me.”

He screams.

Deeper yet again. Blood. “For abandoning me.”
You move to the other eye and repeat the process. “For the wad of cash, I always saw in your pocket that you never gave me.” He screams harder and louder. You are happy.
This is not a story of love gone sour. This is the story of love that never existed. It’s the story of hatred. Pure and raw hatred.

You stand up and move away from him, “Run.” You say. “Get up and run. Run now before I change my mind.”

You know very well that with both eyes disabled, he cannot see.

“The… Binds… Oh, God…” He cries.

“Oh.” You untie his hands and legs. “Run now.”

He staggers unto his feet and begins to stumble towards the door. You are surprised he knows where the door is.

Halfway through, you pull out your Gun and blast his head from behind.

Six motherfucking times.

He drops to his knees, like a remorseful sinner praying for salvation in front of the Virgin Mary.

“And this is for killing my mother, father. May your soul rot in hell, father.” You hiss, walking towards his body.

One more thing, though. You need a shovel.