thecuriousone
Tribune
Again a chapter of the torture college.
The Crux demo
Lila stood beside Mr. Turner, her hands trembling with a mix of fear and pride as she gripped the heavy hammer while hundreds of spectators watched impatiently. It felt like a ceremony, something ancient and ritualistic, as she watched the line of condemned women being led to their crosses. Their faces were pale, terrified, and though she felt a faint stirring of pity, it was buried beneath the overwhelming gravity of the task she’d been entrusted with. To be chosen for this annual demonstration was a high honor at Redhurst, a sign that she was worthy of the most important tasks her professors could request from her.
Mr. Turner looked at her with a nod of encouragement, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Show your skills to the audience , Lila,” he said quietly, his voice steady and almost kind, as though this were a simple classroom exercise. The pride in his gaze made her chest swell, and she straightened her back, gripping the hammer tighter, her nerves tingling with anticipation and a strange, feverish excitement.
They approached the first cross, where a trembling woman had been laid out, her wrists positioned precisely on the rough wood. Mr. Turner held her down, his hands firm, his expression calm, and nodded for Lila to begin. She raised the hammer, feeling its weight pulling down on her arm, but she forced herself to focus, determined not to falter. Her heart raced, her hands slick with sweat, and for a brief moment, she feared she might miss, might mess up this chance to prove herself.
But as she brought the hammer down, it landed true, the nail driving through flesh and wood with a sickening crunch. The woman’s scream tore through the air, raw and guttural, but Lila forced herself to ignore it, her face a mask of determination. She struck again and again, feeling each vibration travel up her arm, until the nail was secure. She moved to the ankles, concentrating with a fierce precision that surprised even herself. Her fear of making a mistake dissolved, replaced by an almost mechanical focus, and she repeated the process, working methodically, her strokes steady.
As she moved from one cross to the next, the horror of her task blurred into a distant hum, an abstract noise that barely reached her. Her focus was entirely on each nail, each strike, the rhythm of her movements. She could feel Mr. Turner’s approving gaze on her, and with each successful strike, her confidence grew, her pride swelling until it drowned out every other feeling. By the time she finished, her arm hurt from the hammering, her face expressionless, and she felt… proud. She had performed flawlessly, like a seasoned apprentice, every strike perfect, every nail straight.
When the last cross was raised, the crowd broke into applause. Lila stepped back, watching as the row of crosses, each bearing a writhing, suffering figure, stood tall against the sky. The women’s cries rose together, a haunting, broken chorus, and she felt a strange satisfaction at the sight, as though she had created something—something darkly beautiful, something powerful.
The applause grew louder, and a swell of pride surged in her chest as she looked up at Mr. Turner. His approving nod felt like the ultimate reward, more intoxicating than any applause. She had done it. She had proven herself worthy.
Later that evening, Lila stood in the grand hall at the Great Crucifixion Ball, dressed in a flowing toga that made her feel almost ethereal. Around her, her classmates and professors mingled, dressed in elegant togas and tuxedos, their laughter filling the air as they celebrated the day’s success. Chandeliers cast a soft glow over the room, and wine flowed freely, the rich, heady scent of it mixing with the faint metallic tang that seemed to cling to her skin.
Outside the window one could see the long line of crosses, each carrying a squirming woman. Her work. She smiled.
She felt a great sense of accomplishment as she moved through the crowd, receiving congratulations and admiring glances. She couldn’t shake the feeling of power that thrummed through her, the satisfaction of having been part of something grand, something historic. People spoke of her performance, her composure, and with each compliment, her pride grew, blotting out any lingering doubt.
One day she would be making career as executioner.
The Crux demo
Lila stood beside Mr. Turner, her hands trembling with a mix of fear and pride as she gripped the heavy hammer while hundreds of spectators watched impatiently. It felt like a ceremony, something ancient and ritualistic, as she watched the line of condemned women being led to their crosses. Their faces were pale, terrified, and though she felt a faint stirring of pity, it was buried beneath the overwhelming gravity of the task she’d been entrusted with. To be chosen for this annual demonstration was a high honor at Redhurst, a sign that she was worthy of the most important tasks her professors could request from her.
Mr. Turner looked at her with a nod of encouragement, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Show your skills to the audience , Lila,” he said quietly, his voice steady and almost kind, as though this were a simple classroom exercise. The pride in his gaze made her chest swell, and she straightened her back, gripping the hammer tighter, her nerves tingling with anticipation and a strange, feverish excitement.
They approached the first cross, where a trembling woman had been laid out, her wrists positioned precisely on the rough wood. Mr. Turner held her down, his hands firm, his expression calm, and nodded for Lila to begin. She raised the hammer, feeling its weight pulling down on her arm, but she forced herself to focus, determined not to falter. Her heart raced, her hands slick with sweat, and for a brief moment, she feared she might miss, might mess up this chance to prove herself.
But as she brought the hammer down, it landed true, the nail driving through flesh and wood with a sickening crunch. The woman’s scream tore through the air, raw and guttural, but Lila forced herself to ignore it, her face a mask of determination. She struck again and again, feeling each vibration travel up her arm, until the nail was secure. She moved to the ankles, concentrating with a fierce precision that surprised even herself. Her fear of making a mistake dissolved, replaced by an almost mechanical focus, and she repeated the process, working methodically, her strokes steady.
As she moved from one cross to the next, the horror of her task blurred into a distant hum, an abstract noise that barely reached her. Her focus was entirely on each nail, each strike, the rhythm of her movements. She could feel Mr. Turner’s approving gaze on her, and with each successful strike, her confidence grew, her pride swelling until it drowned out every other feeling. By the time she finished, her arm hurt from the hammering, her face expressionless, and she felt… proud. She had performed flawlessly, like a seasoned apprentice, every strike perfect, every nail straight.
When the last cross was raised, the crowd broke into applause. Lila stepped back, watching as the row of crosses, each bearing a writhing, suffering figure, stood tall against the sky. The women’s cries rose together, a haunting, broken chorus, and she felt a strange satisfaction at the sight, as though she had created something—something darkly beautiful, something powerful.
The applause grew louder, and a swell of pride surged in her chest as she looked up at Mr. Turner. His approving nod felt like the ultimate reward, more intoxicating than any applause. She had done it. She had proven herself worthy.
Later that evening, Lila stood in the grand hall at the Great Crucifixion Ball, dressed in a flowing toga that made her feel almost ethereal. Around her, her classmates and professors mingled, dressed in elegant togas and tuxedos, their laughter filling the air as they celebrated the day’s success. Chandeliers cast a soft glow over the room, and wine flowed freely, the rich, heady scent of it mixing with the faint metallic tang that seemed to cling to her skin.
Outside the window one could see the long line of crosses, each carrying a squirming woman. Her work. She smiled.
She felt a great sense of accomplishment as she moved through the crowd, receiving congratulations and admiring glances. She couldn’t shake the feeling of power that thrummed through her, the satisfaction of having been part of something grand, something historic. People spoke of her performance, her composure, and with each compliment, her pride grew, blotting out any lingering doubt.
One day she would be making career as executioner.
