A TWISTED MIND

The hanging man was terrified. Sweat trickled down profusely at the rate of a leaking pot. His arms were tightly tied behind his back. His body swung – the head dangling downwards – held by a rope to a hook in the ceiling by the legs. His oppressors, two of them, were walking around him in circles. The one near him was older in years, about fifty, and clad in a maroon apron over a long-sleeved shirt. The sleeves were carefully folded up to the elbow. The apron dropped to his knees and dark silk trousers were tucked into leather boots. The other man, who looked about twenty, paced up and down nervously near one wall of the room. He glanced at the victim occasionally before continuing his pacing. He had on a leather jacket adorned with plastic spikes that looked very real on the shoulders. His blue jeans were stained crimson red with blood on their flanks. The boots he wore were brown. “Tom, the boy, hand me that saw,” the older man said in a gruff voice. Tom half walked, half ran to the table on the far right of the room. “This one?” “Yeah, the adjustable one. Bring it, quickly.” Tom now ran to where the older man was. As he handed it over, he touched his shoulder, and shaking, said, “Greg, we don’t have to…to do this, it`s not right.” Greg turned, so fast that Tom had to step back. “We do what we have to,” he said, “now I have work to do. Don’t interrupt.”                                                                   *** Outside, the weather looked fine. The clouds drifted across the night sky lazily. The pale soft glow of the moon bathing all it touched grey. To an outsider, everything would seem quiet, peaceful, and normal in this part of the city. To some residents, nothing was out of place, except they could not hear the screams that were muffled by the thick soundproof walls of an underground basement right beneath their feet.