torturer - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was just an average person you would see on the street. Perhaps a little kinder, though. He had a lot a friends which he would go out with and would always pay the bill. But once you get to know him, it is too late. That very day he invites you to his home to drink champagne, will be your last day. As he carries a drunk you to the bedroom, you already know you are dead. Then he lashes out his belt and starts whipping you. The torture begins. But you'll never know when it ends. It was his addiction. A psychopath. A murderer. A torturer.
Then when before you die, the last thing you will remember is the maniacal expression on his face and the words 'Go. To. Sleep.'
He was good at first. Nobody suspected a thing, and he was everything you could've ever asked for a person to be. But when he gained your trust, when you had a bound so deep you couldn't run away, that's when the monster appeared.
He didn't need any weapons to hurt you; just a word, and you were crying on his feet, begging him to stay. Even if he won't really go away, you believed it. The simple thought that he could leave was enough to make you pray him. And he knew it. He knew he made you an addict to his painful words, to his hits and sweet words right after.
He was your torturer, your pain disguised as an angel. And even when you were crying on the floor, wondering why and praying the pain to stop, you still fucking loved him.
As a young man the torturer had had to hide his penchant for causing pain. His mother suspected it, she'd found the small creatures he'd pinned out while he dissected them. She hoped they'd been dead for that part, of course they hadn't been. For him the moment that the light left their eyes was the greatest thrill of all. She had worried he was heading for a life in prison, she needn't have. He was heading for lucrative contracts with the mob. They very much appreciated his talents. He would have done it for free of course, but with the money he lived large. Caviar for breakfast, Champagne with lunch, always dinner at a fancy restaurant. He left fat tips and charmed the staff. Sometimes just for kicks he befriended his targets first, somehow it enhanced his pleasure.
The torturer ran his hands over the cold metal tools and let a giggle slip, soon followed by a snort. He breathed in deeply like Oliver had done only last week at the rose garden with Sabine. Then as he picked up the scalpel his eyes popped a little wider and his tongue shot out to lick his thin lips. With one flick he turned the music system on to fill the room with loud orchestral music, always live and rare recordings. Then he turned to Oliver, and ran his fingers over the arms that had cuddled baby Lucy only that morning and began to draw the blade over the top. He liked the victim to watch their blood flow before the real pain began and their screams sang to the music, the finest and most raw instrument he'd ever heard. Most guys that came through his "shop" were off-books for the military and they told him how far he could go, how much of the person should be left at the end. This was just some chump who got lost delivering mail, it wasn't like he could let him wonder out after what he'd seen, might as well enjoy it...
The torturer was a normal man, Ivan could tell from the look on his face. This was a man with something large being held over him, perhaps the safety of his child. There was love flickering in his eyes, so inappropriate for the setting. He would hesitate until the final moment when he surrendered his soul for that of whomever her loved. It was strange to be making the rescue plan considering the cutter as another potential victim, but if he was right there was a child in the complex...
It is unnerving to see the eyes of a snake glaring from a human head, one bereft of love, devoid of conscience. Over the course of that year in the camp I watched him "work" many times, the powers that be finding it useful to make us watch. The torturer only ever smiled when making an incision, his emotions otherwise cold throughout. That man didn't need to be afraid to kill or any semblance of self-defence. Causing pain was his addiction and should he ever be let loose from the camp I'm quite sure he'll find new victims.
The beef stood back from the table to let a woman through, blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. There was something wrong with her eyes, savouring him as if he were a lover. She took a single finger and licked it before running it down his face to the opening of his shirt. "Tank, remove his clothing. I like to see the raw material before my art begins."
After the injection the torturer entered, scrawny with a pencil moustache, thin mousey hair combed over his scalp. "Good-day. You will start with the information on how we find the other spies while I inspect the contents of your left eye ball." Without waiting for Conrad to answer the extraction began, his head straining against the metal head-band and his screams filling the small concrete room. "Hmm, quite normal. I suppose it was a good eye, now it's junk, so sad." The eye was scrapped into the trash and the man wiped the counter, pulling a face as if repulsed by the goo. Conrad's remaining eye swivelled to the man, his jowls quivering, yet his mouth stayed shut. "Your tongue will be last and we have so many questions...