Dread Lady Nathicana 28-08-2003 19:06
ooc: True, some of you hardened souls may find this mild, however, the following contains scenes of torture and as such, I felt the need to warn readers ahead of time. That being said ... on to the post.
It had been a week since Mateo had burst into this office, so full of himself ... so confident. She turned her face to the window, looking out over the bleak view of her city in the rain. Often, the stormy weather brought comfort, seeing the water washing things clean, seeming to bring new colors out of the bricks and painted stucco walls, watching the play of the wind and the clouds.
But not today. A grey pall seemed to hang heavy over the city, the clouds low and threatening. Thunder rumbled in an almost constant boom, the sound ebbing and flowing. Lightning flashes occasionally lit up the sky, striking sharp contrasting lights against the washed out buildings. The waters of the Canale were dark and choppy, with few venturing out on them to brave the dreary weather.
Her brow was furrowed in thought as she sat, looking out through the rain-streaked window. The ice in her water had long since melted, the glass sitting untouched on her desk in a pool of condensation. It was past time, and she knew it.
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, her eyes closing for a moment, then she stood, and made her way resolutely to the door. Down the hall she walked, the heels of her boots echoing dully through the long corridor. The few faces she saw going about their duties shrunk back at her approach, some flinching as if expecting a blow after catching a glimpse of her cold expression. Hushed whispers seemed to spring up in her wake, furtive glances and knowing looks, with many a nod at the direction her steps were taking her.
Opening the iron-bound door at the far end of the hall, she stepped out into the cool air, and onto the Bridge of Tears, two stories up from the canal below. Completely enclosed, it differed from many of the other bridges in the city, though it retained the feel and beauty of the others. It was dark, save for the stoneworked lattice openings situated at regular intervals along its length where the dim light of the overcast day leaked in. Through those small windows had many a condemned had caught his last glimpse of the outside world before entering the prison beyond. The wind whistled through the crevices as she crossed the passage, its floor worn with the crossing of many feet over the years. She shivered in spite of herself. Coming to the end, she opened the other door, a mirror of the first, and entered into the Prigioni Scura, the old prison from the days of city states and Doges.
Other than some structural fixes, little had changed in the prison over the years. The lower level in fact, had been somewhat restored, and used for the tourism industry. But here, in the back, away from the busy Piazza and the crowds, hidden from the view of curious passersby, it was cold, worn, and gloomy. Old, worn stone pavers made up the floor, in many places, split or chipped. The stucco walls might once have been white, but from time, dirt, and the constant burning of candles, now replaced by dim electric lights, had greyed their color and streaked them in centuries old grime.
The six cells along this hallway were all empty, save for one. Outside it sat a box, a surgical bag, and a large plastic cooler full of ice water, as she'd directed. Even before she opened the old wooden door, she could hear the sounds of someone in pain emanating from the small cell.
Through the door, there was an oddly shaped cell covered in ancient wooden planking, stained from the nails that held them in place, rotted through in spots. A small short footstool sat in a corner, as did a bucket in another. A long, very old wooden table fixed with two four-handled cranks, one at each end, and six rollers, covered in small spikes sat up along the left hand wall. And from the arched ceiling, from an old wrought-iron hook mounted there, hung a man. Until a few hours ago, his wrists and elbows had been bound with rope behind him, then pulled back and up onto the hook via a length of the rope, leaving him hanging in an agonizing position, his toes swinging just above the floor. He wore not a stitch, and his body showed the signs of a weeks worth of such treatments.
First, it had been simply sitting naked, shackled ankle chains attached via handcuffs to wrists. Water had been provided on an infrequent basis in a small pie tin, forcing him to lap it up as best he could like a dog. This was the first day.
On the second, his muscles already cramped, he had been hung upside down for hours on end, his hands bound behind him. Occasionally, guards would come in to wash him down with buckets of cold water ungently poured over him. He had been forced to get what liquids he could during those times.
The third day, he was forced to sit atop a metal board with several long lengths of pointed corrugation bolted atop it, its hard metal edges digging into his flesh mercilessly, his elbows bound to his knees, and wrists to ankles with rope tight enough to hurt, but not to cut off circulation, and his neck kept firm by a metal manacle set in the wall. He was force-fed a bitter pork broth that was entirely too salty in content. The thirst had been as unbearable as the seat.
When dawn rose on the fourth day, he had been given a brief reprieve. His wounds were tended to, a succulently rich meal was allowed ... which he ate entirely too quickly. His stomach, after so long without, cramped horribly. When he complained, he had been beaten with long tubes filled with dry rice, delivering solid but undamaging blows over his already aching body.
For the entirety of the fifth, he was doubled up inside a confining wooden box with very little ventilation, and left for the entire twenty-four hours. The filth and the stench of bodily fluids, sweat, and excrement were unbearable. He was hardly able to breathe, let alone budge in the cramped space. By the time they let him out, he was screaming in shrill panicked gasps like a stuck pig.
That morning of the sixth, he was moved swiftly from his cramped position to one more stretched out, giving him no time to adapt. A leather collar with D-rings in both the front and back was affixed to his neck. To the ring, his wrists were pulled up behind his head, and handcuffed. He was made to face the wall, and linked with a small screwlock carabiner to an old iron ring there, placed at such a height that he was forced to stand up on his toes to breathe properly. Each time the already cramped muscles in his legs gave, the collar pressed viciously against his windpipe.
Which brought him to today, hanging as he was from one wrist from the hook in the ceiling, his shoulder, obviously dislocated from the strain of his weight. The cell stank from human waste, sweat, and blood. His head was slumped down on his chest, his breathing ragged. An occasional anguished sob wracked his body, and when it did, yet more noises of pain whistled and squealed forth as it jogged his shoulder. His bound wrist was covered in scratches and dried blood where he'd tried to claw himself loose from his confinement. At the opening of the door, he weakly raised his head, and looked at her with haunted, yet burning eyes.
28-08-2003 19:09
OOC:
Very good post. Presumably it will, well, have her completing the process? Some nice descriptive passages and an interesting view of something different to WASP morality.
(couldn't fully comply with the request, hope that's more worthy)
Langham 28-08-2003 19:19
N/M
Oglethorpia 28-08-2003 19:20
OOC: Hmmmm, Janus Mateo was alive last time my Foreign Minister checked.
imported_Angelus 29-08-2003 00:31
[tag]
The SLAGLands 29-08-2003 00:45
OOC:
...you are one twisted bitch, Nathi.
29-08-2003 00:47
Quote:
Originally Posted by The SLAGLands
OOC:
...you are one twisted bitch, Nathi.
OOC: Ah yes, but what a wonderful twisted bitch she is, eh?
29-08-2003 08:51
ooc: indeed a very good post *marks thread* - and wonderful is the word, Haraki
29-08-2003 09:04
[tag....remind me to never fall into your hands *shudders*)
29-08-2003 09:28
#Tag#
OOC: Why was I foolish enough to read this around dinner time?
29-08-2003 10:49
Well, without comment on whether one might be hardened or not, it is most interesting to note that with the new UN measurement of ranking by trait for this day, we see that Dread Lady Nathicana is ranked 1st in the region and 4,062nd in the world for Largest Insurance Industry.
Which causes me to wonder, did her people learn of this most carefully detailed and considered punishment and react overnight, perhaps, to ensure that should the worst also befall them, their families might at least be still provided for?
Nothing like a strong dose of the "worst" to shock one into taking whatever preventative measures one can think of... Nice story Nathicana!