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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/bobturn/day/2-21-2021
Rated: 18+ · Book · Horror/Scary · #2222317
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
What I'm fired up about

February 21, 2021 at 5:16am
February 21, 2021 at 5:16am
#1004910
I bounced around private prisons a good deal in my career. The real money was only made by upper management who rarely entered such lowly realms as those of criminals who got caught. For guards, such as myself, we had to be creative, making fortunes of our own.

The snake pits of the system offered the best opportunity for that sort of thing. Armour was that sort of place, so spoiled and rotten even snakes couldn’t stand it. Monsters could. Sadists, perverts and social misfits played their games of chance with the lives of inmates who couldn’t be much worse.

By the time I ended up there, I had a rep as an enforcer. Unusual for that role, when interrogating a prisoner I play it tender, soft and easy, the only ‘good guy’ among my ruthless bunch. Results oriented as much as any of my kind. It paid off.

Unlucky corrupt political rivals hauled in before escaping with their millions tended to wheel and deal with me. If they didn’t, and a roll of the dice got them anyone else, torture and death was offered instead.

The inmates called the black curtain hung across the torture chamber doorway the veil of the jail. It had a kind of rhyme to it. Humor has the darkest resting places. Pass through the veil and you will never be seen again. It was for processing. If you were lucky in bargaining for your life, those willing to buy you, if coming from high enough places bought your body and soul.

I don’t mind any means of extracting information as long as it gets results. Doing torture for fun and recreation, I leave to the monsters who feed on it. The worst was Eddie Bower.

We’d tested wills. If left to my own devices I usually won out. When we paired up, he was brutal and conniving enough to tear whatever was useful out of a prisoner, offering them death as a reward for putting them out of their misery.

When Madeline Bower stepped past the veil, stripped of everything but her pride, there was an instant hush of silence. She was a journalist, an activist, and daughter of a man with independent means. It was the magic combination that guaranteed she’d end up here.

The look in her eyes judged Eddie Bower and me as the same monstrous thing. I nodded to the little man who ushered everyone out but himself, me and Madeline Bower.

The screams were particularly vibrant echoing out of this chamber of horrors. They went on for an extended amount of time before results were ill gotten.

I hadn’t lifted a finger. I had done one thing right, exchanging victim for torturer. Eddie Bower had given up how to get all of his treasure. Madeline Bower’s wronged past and present opportunity met the challenge.


Eddie was so much lifeless unrecognisable meat. I carried Madeline Bower out like baggage to our future together, independently rich and grateful to be free.


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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/bobturn/day/2-21-2021