Cruxfan23
Onlooker
Unnecessary Warning: This series contains graphic descriptions of extreme pysical and pyschological torture, along with themes of restraint, helplessness, public humiliation, bodily violation and human mortality. If you are likely to be offended by anything listed above, please turn back now. Otherwise...enjoy 
Part One
When the governement first announced it would be reintroducing crucifixion, I didn't take them seriously. Nobody did. It was just another empty promise from a dying party, a futile attempt to claw back some public support in the face of civil unrest. When the first executions began to take place, grisly public spectacles that attracted huge crowds of onlookers, I still didn't pay much attention. Crucifixion was just too far outside my reality; a distant horror that could only affect other people, never me.
Even now, arms tied to a heavy wooden crossbeam, bare feet raw from the long march, body stripped of clothing and aching all over, I still can't quite believe it. I try to remember how I ended up here, trapped amidst this grim procession, but my mind refuses to acknowledge anything that happened before today.
Even this morning's events are a blur: I woke in a dank, stinking cell, sore all over, my hands cuffed together. I remained there until a pair of guards dragged me into an interrogation room, where a man in a cheap suit informed me that all of my assets had been liquidated. I was then made to strip, since my clothes were now property of the state, although I was permitted to keep my boxers. Or continue wearing them, at least. The man made it quite clear that they were now on "temporary loan." Emphasis on the word temporary. Cold and disoriented, I was dragged outside, where a crossbeam was tied to my arms, and then, with a dozen or so other prisoners, I was led into the streets.
No part of the gruelling march that followed made the experience seem any less surreal. The guards drove us through the city on a lengthy route to the local park, the streets lined with surprised pedestrians, hassled-looking commuters and jeering onlookers. The whole time I was expecting soneone to come running after us, some flustered legal assistant with news of a mix-up, that this had all been a big mistake.
But no such news arrived.
And now, almost half an hour later, my ragtag group is finally nearing its destination.
I glance up as we pass through the gates of the local park. On any other day I would be happy to be here; with its rolling hills and tall trees, the park is a popular destination for a reason. But today I feel only dread as we are marched along its meandering path, the coarse gravel heaping yet more pain on my bare feet.
Our journey continues, past benches and trees, until we come to a raised area where a number of crosses have been erected. A handful of men are already hanging here, and I feel sure that we will stop, but no, we are told to kept moving. I glance up at the men as we pass by: they are still alive, but only just. One is sobbing, another weakly calls for water. The guards pay them no attention.
Eventually we come to a wide clearing, already packed with hundreds of people. A great cheer goes up as we arrive, mingled with applause and scattered booing. There are murmurs of apprehension from my fellow cross-bearers, and I exhange nervous glances with a few of then. Our captors, however, are unphased. They lead us deep into the heart of the crowd, to an area where the path is lined on both sides by sturdy, upright posts.
One post for each of us, I grimly observe.
And so it begins. There is no announcement, no ceremony. The guards simply grab the first guy in the line, drag him away from us, and start work. The crowd is so dense that it's impossible to see exactly what happens next, but the man's screams are graphic enough to paint a picture on their own. Not long after, his writhing body is hoisted back into view and raised into position on one of the uprights. Then his feet are nailed too. He's no longer screaming, although it's clear from his face that he wants to. All he can manage is to turn his head left and right, then back again, eyes moving between his wounds as though in disbelief at what he sees.
Finished with their first victim, the guards claim another, and another one soon after that. The next one tries to run, but the heavy crossbeam prevents him from getting far. He goes down easily, and the guards give him a few kicks between the legs for good measure before dragging him out of sight.
I'm now just two spots from the front of the queue. Up next is a olive-skinned guy with an impressive body and plenty of tattoos. His complexion and features suggest a middle-eastern descent; the exotic lettering inked onto his muscular torso all but confirms it. He's quite clearly trying to psyche himself up: shouting at the crowd, kicking at the dirt, making aggressive little movements towards the guards. The man is still making noise when they drag him away.
And this time, im close enough for an unobstructed view of what happens next.
First, the ropes are removed from around his arms, freeing him from the weight of the heavy crossbeam. It drops to the ground with such force that I feel the earth vibrate beneath my feet. Next, The man is ordered to strip, which he does. Perhaps too eagerly. But he's clearly worked hard for his body and has no reservations about putting it on display. He casually throws his boxers aside and stands proudly, arms spread wide, daring the crowd to jeer his nakedness. Even as the guards pull him off balance, his masculine posturing remains in full effect.
"Fuck you!" he shouts defiantly as he is thrown against the wood. "I'll fuck you up!"
The guards pin him down, pulling his arms straight and holding them against the crossbeam. I see the glint of metal against his skin, watch the hammer rise, then fall...
Beneath the metallic clang, I can almost hear a loud pop as the man's protective bubble of over-confidence bursts. His eyes widen, but more from surprise than pain. He even manages to resist crying out when the hammer falls for a second time. But when the third blow lands, reality finally breaks through. He lets out a terrible howl and begins to thrash wildly, pounding the dirt with his feet, begging the guards to stop. I have never seen anyone so utterly humbled in such a short time; I doubt the guards could have broken his spirit more effectively if they were pounding the nail into his very soul. Again the hammer falls, and again, until finally the metal spike has been driven home.
With his left arm secured, the guards turn their attention to his right. "No, wait!" he pleads, voice now several octaves higher than before. "Wait!" But he is powerless to stop the next blow, or the next, or the next. His cries for mercy descend into senseless wailing, but the guards are far from done. They haul his spasming body off the ground, lock his crossbar into position on the upright, then prepare to nail his ankles.
But thats where they stop.
The mans feet are left dangling freely against the upright, his entire weight on the nails in his wrists. Its clealry an agonizing experience, and it goes on for an uncomfortable amount of time. But all he can do is hang limply, crying for mercy, while the guards make no effort to finish their work. I realise they're toying with him, punishing him for his earlier bravado.
The man begins to scrabble hopelessly against the upright with his feet, searching for support that doesnt exist. "Please," he wails, muscles straining. "Please!"
The guards simply laugh. "Not so cocky now, are you?" One of them sneers.
"I'm...sorry!" the man gasps. "Dont...Dont leave me like this!" His face is twisted beyond recognition; every feature lined with pain and fear.
The guards allow him to dangle a short while longer, then finally move back in. The man is so desperate to relieve the pain in his wrists that he actually offers his feet out to them.
"Please...hurry..."
The guards oblige, bending his knees up forty-five degrees then quickly driving nails through his heel bones. First his left, then his right. The man howls as the spikes pierce him, a dreadful, inhuman sound, then promptly empties his bladder. I can't watch any longer.
Unsure where to look next, I find myself studying the guy ahead of me. I carefully examine his slender body, his messy blonde hair, his tense muscles. I even find myself examing the designer logo on the waistband of his boxers. Anything to distract myself from the fact that he is now the only person ahead of me in the queue. I try to speak, to maybe wish him luck, but no words come out. Then he is gone, and I know that I am next.
Christ. I'm next.
Part One
When the governement first announced it would be reintroducing crucifixion, I didn't take them seriously. Nobody did. It was just another empty promise from a dying party, a futile attempt to claw back some public support in the face of civil unrest. When the first executions began to take place, grisly public spectacles that attracted huge crowds of onlookers, I still didn't pay much attention. Crucifixion was just too far outside my reality; a distant horror that could only affect other people, never me.
Even now, arms tied to a heavy wooden crossbeam, bare feet raw from the long march, body stripped of clothing and aching all over, I still can't quite believe it. I try to remember how I ended up here, trapped amidst this grim procession, but my mind refuses to acknowledge anything that happened before today.
Even this morning's events are a blur: I woke in a dank, stinking cell, sore all over, my hands cuffed together. I remained there until a pair of guards dragged me into an interrogation room, where a man in a cheap suit informed me that all of my assets had been liquidated. I was then made to strip, since my clothes were now property of the state, although I was permitted to keep my boxers. Or continue wearing them, at least. The man made it quite clear that they were now on "temporary loan." Emphasis on the word temporary. Cold and disoriented, I was dragged outside, where a crossbeam was tied to my arms, and then, with a dozen or so other prisoners, I was led into the streets.
No part of the gruelling march that followed made the experience seem any less surreal. The guards drove us through the city on a lengthy route to the local park, the streets lined with surprised pedestrians, hassled-looking commuters and jeering onlookers. The whole time I was expecting soneone to come running after us, some flustered legal assistant with news of a mix-up, that this had all been a big mistake.
But no such news arrived.
And now, almost half an hour later, my ragtag group is finally nearing its destination.
I glance up as we pass through the gates of the local park. On any other day I would be happy to be here; with its rolling hills and tall trees, the park is a popular destination for a reason. But today I feel only dread as we are marched along its meandering path, the coarse gravel heaping yet more pain on my bare feet.
Our journey continues, past benches and trees, until we come to a raised area where a number of crosses have been erected. A handful of men are already hanging here, and I feel sure that we will stop, but no, we are told to kept moving. I glance up at the men as we pass by: they are still alive, but only just. One is sobbing, another weakly calls for water. The guards pay them no attention.
Eventually we come to a wide clearing, already packed with hundreds of people. A great cheer goes up as we arrive, mingled with applause and scattered booing. There are murmurs of apprehension from my fellow cross-bearers, and I exhange nervous glances with a few of then. Our captors, however, are unphased. They lead us deep into the heart of the crowd, to an area where the path is lined on both sides by sturdy, upright posts.
One post for each of us, I grimly observe.
And so it begins. There is no announcement, no ceremony. The guards simply grab the first guy in the line, drag him away from us, and start work. The crowd is so dense that it's impossible to see exactly what happens next, but the man's screams are graphic enough to paint a picture on their own. Not long after, his writhing body is hoisted back into view and raised into position on one of the uprights. Then his feet are nailed too. He's no longer screaming, although it's clear from his face that he wants to. All he can manage is to turn his head left and right, then back again, eyes moving between his wounds as though in disbelief at what he sees.
Finished with their first victim, the guards claim another, and another one soon after that. The next one tries to run, but the heavy crossbeam prevents him from getting far. He goes down easily, and the guards give him a few kicks between the legs for good measure before dragging him out of sight.
I'm now just two spots from the front of the queue. Up next is a olive-skinned guy with an impressive body and plenty of tattoos. His complexion and features suggest a middle-eastern descent; the exotic lettering inked onto his muscular torso all but confirms it. He's quite clearly trying to psyche himself up: shouting at the crowd, kicking at the dirt, making aggressive little movements towards the guards. The man is still making noise when they drag him away.
And this time, im close enough for an unobstructed view of what happens next.
First, the ropes are removed from around his arms, freeing him from the weight of the heavy crossbeam. It drops to the ground with such force that I feel the earth vibrate beneath my feet. Next, The man is ordered to strip, which he does. Perhaps too eagerly. But he's clearly worked hard for his body and has no reservations about putting it on display. He casually throws his boxers aside and stands proudly, arms spread wide, daring the crowd to jeer his nakedness. Even as the guards pull him off balance, his masculine posturing remains in full effect.
"Fuck you!" he shouts defiantly as he is thrown against the wood. "I'll fuck you up!"
The guards pin him down, pulling his arms straight and holding them against the crossbeam. I see the glint of metal against his skin, watch the hammer rise, then fall...
Beneath the metallic clang, I can almost hear a loud pop as the man's protective bubble of over-confidence bursts. His eyes widen, but more from surprise than pain. He even manages to resist crying out when the hammer falls for a second time. But when the third blow lands, reality finally breaks through. He lets out a terrible howl and begins to thrash wildly, pounding the dirt with his feet, begging the guards to stop. I have never seen anyone so utterly humbled in such a short time; I doubt the guards could have broken his spirit more effectively if they were pounding the nail into his very soul. Again the hammer falls, and again, until finally the metal spike has been driven home.
With his left arm secured, the guards turn their attention to his right. "No, wait!" he pleads, voice now several octaves higher than before. "Wait!" But he is powerless to stop the next blow, or the next, or the next. His cries for mercy descend into senseless wailing, but the guards are far from done. They haul his spasming body off the ground, lock his crossbar into position on the upright, then prepare to nail his ankles.
But thats where they stop.
The mans feet are left dangling freely against the upright, his entire weight on the nails in his wrists. Its clealry an agonizing experience, and it goes on for an uncomfortable amount of time. But all he can do is hang limply, crying for mercy, while the guards make no effort to finish their work. I realise they're toying with him, punishing him for his earlier bravado.
The man begins to scrabble hopelessly against the upright with his feet, searching for support that doesnt exist. "Please," he wails, muscles straining. "Please!"
The guards simply laugh. "Not so cocky now, are you?" One of them sneers.
"I'm...sorry!" the man gasps. "Dont...Dont leave me like this!" His face is twisted beyond recognition; every feature lined with pain and fear.
The guards allow him to dangle a short while longer, then finally move back in. The man is so desperate to relieve the pain in his wrists that he actually offers his feet out to them.
"Please...hurry..."
The guards oblige, bending his knees up forty-five degrees then quickly driving nails through his heel bones. First his left, then his right. The man howls as the spikes pierce him, a dreadful, inhuman sound, then promptly empties his bladder. I can't watch any longer.
Unsure where to look next, I find myself studying the guy ahead of me. I carefully examine his slender body, his messy blonde hair, his tense muscles. I even find myself examing the designer logo on the waistband of his boxers. Anything to distract myself from the fact that he is now the only person ahead of me in the queue. I try to speak, to maybe wish him luck, but no words come out. Then he is gone, and I know that I am next.
Christ. I'm next.
