Tools of torture an essay on beauty and pain

Suffering is Part of the Process

Had to be drinking. With great strain I try to piece together the night before. I remember a waitress; buxom, blonde and quick to refill my glass with something that burned all the way down. It was an opulent amber liquid.

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Oh, delicious nectar of the gods. Anyway, back to present. My arms are even more up, above my head to be exact, and apparently bound by cold metal cuffs. Against better judgment, I pry open my eyes and brace for the sting of bright light that never comes. Hangover-friendly ambiance, got to love it.

That relief is short-lived, of course, when my surroundings come into, albeit bleary, focus.


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I was right about the stone walls and the chaffing manacles biting into my wrists, I also notice that my ankles are similarly bound. The whole room is a stone tomb with the exception being a wooden door across from me that looks very heavy and possibly very locked. Because, you know, chaining me to a wall is never enough. Well, not the table per se, but the wide array of sharp and shiny objects housed upon the table. Torture devices, so to speak, circa thirteenth century. Then I move on to making a mental list of all those possibly responsible for my current predicament.

Because, yes, more than one person would like to see me chained to a wall and screaming for mercy. I have this charming personality quirk that causes nearly everyone I meet want to flay, maim, or generally kill me.

Just to name a few; muay thai boxer, mercenary, assassin, and cook for a chain-store pizza restaurant. That last one made me a shitload of cutthroat enemies. People are vicious when it comes to cheap junk food. Actually, its more like he swooshes in, a tidal wave gliding across the coast line. Its a man, by the way. Sigh, boys and their toys. Oh no. Are you serious? Jesus H. Yup, I am definitely in some sort of torture chamber. This is just swell. I mean really, what better way to spend a Monday, right? Oh and look! Kinda like that dead guy rotting in that cage hanging from the ceiling.

Tough break. Wait, is that? They even broke out the old rat, torch, bucket combo! This is really dandy I feel like a celebrity! Ooh here comes the man of the hour now! Big one too. Excuse me, sir do you know how long this will take? Not much of a talker are you? Chilling as it were. What are you doing back there?

Woah, what is that thing? Okay Lenny, may I call you Lenny? A wooden box on wheels with some kind of glass face? Are you going to hit me with that?

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No, that glass is far too expensive. Whats that hanging out the back? Is that a whip? A whips with prongs! Oh you just stabbed the wall. The box is glowing? What sorcery is this? There are words on the glass… Twilight? What is this? Oh God… Please stop… No! Oh Jesus, God, no! A dull, throbbing pain inside my skull is all I know at first, all awareness of anything else pushed subconsciously out of my sluggish mind in my state of unconsciousness.

As if waking from a deep sleep, my brain begins to slowly reacquaint itself with my surroundings; my breathing first; then the hard, damp, frigid floor and walls against my shivering body; my muscles finally begin to respond, and I open my weary eyes to blurry vision and dim lighting. Soon after, the stench of hate and fear join my other senses, and as if a bucket of water were poured on my head, I snap awake, finally realize where I am, and the pain from the past few days returns to me in a flash.

In a panic, I try to move only to realize that my arms are chained to the wall just above my head. The shackles dig deeply into my wrists as I strain against them momentarily; a sense of futility washes over me, and I slouch back against the wall, sobbing at my helplessness. In the cold, damp cell, the hotness of the tears flowing down my grimy face is almost a relief. After a few moments, I calm myself and look around my prison. The room is rather large, of a rough stone construction, containing only one door, and a singular light situated in the center of the room is the only source of illumination.

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A window on the opposite wall from me, open to the breeze outside, allows the chill of autumn to fill the room. There are no bars on the window, a taunting illusion of freedom for me, being chained to the wall and unable to escape. Directly below the only light in the room is a long surgical table, the surrounding floor bathed in what could only be the blood of previous victims.

Small slits perforate the table every inch or so, the holes about the size of a small steak knife. Underneath the table resides the reason for these cuts: a fixated grid of razor sharp blades fastened to the table on hydraulic rods used to slowly push the blades up through the table and into the unlucky victim perched up there. I shudder, thinking of just how close I had been to becoming Swiss cheese.

Atop a rolling cart, a tray of various surgical tools roost, caked in old, dried blood and rust, though the blades have never been dull by the looks of them. Hanging from the edges of the cart is a lethal looking drill, a set of screwdrivers, and vice grips. These, too, are covered in blood and a thin sheet of rust. On the walls hung a chainsaw, hammers, handsaws, and chisels, all suspended on nails above a water faucet.

All throughout the room, the lingering smells of mildew, blood, rotting flesh, and feces permeates the air. So this is what death smells like, I muse. Underneath the only source of water in the room, built down into the floor about two feet, is a drainage basin, a stopper chained to the wall and covering the drain. Beside I see a thinly padded table with straps for the arms and legs and supports for the shoulders.

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Protruding from the side of the table on either side are two wooden handles. What a hellish experience, I think to myself, shuddering. Built into the opposite wall are two large cages. Inside one are large, sinister looking sewer rats used to torture victims psychologically.


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  8. In the other cage are three very large pit bulls, each gnawing hungrily on large bones and eying me. What looked to be a device for crushing a victims head while lifting him in the air via pulleys dangles from the ceiling in the corner. This is crazy, I think. My torturer should be here soon. Just as I finish the though, in he walks. I was cold and my head hurt. It was very dark. I sat up, gently rubbing my eyes that were caked shut with blood. The rattling of chains attached to my legs sounded the alarms in my head.

    I crawled on the stone floor using my hands as my eyes.