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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please try to avoid describing my story as "torture porn", I really don't like that phrase. Enjoy.

Submitted: July 21, 2016

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Submitted: July 21, 2016



I had so many devices at my disposal. So many different weapons around me, weapons and devices that could make even the most experienced and hardened torturer scream for dear life. These devices have touched many people. A fault of mine, I know. I can't tell you my real name but you can call me Tomas. I'll be fully honest, I used to be a very bad person.

I don't know if I still am though, I hope and pray every single second of my life that I have been forgiven, but I know God has forsaken me. I knew it was too late when I began, which is why I write this confession now in my last few hours. My practices left me chained by the pain of all my victims. God forgive me.

As I said, you may call me Tomas. It is a word that was given to me by my victims. Named after Tomas De Torquemada. You can find out who he is. I hurt people for a living, no allegiances, no loyalties, nobody. Pain always followed where money was placed. One of my “greatest” works was for the government. I was under my usual alias and they wanted me to torture a terrorist for information. This was probably the first and definitely the last time I felt like I was doing something justified. I used methods that his organization had used on others, at some moments I didn’t even care about getting information from him, I just wanted to hurt him. I was definitely the last person in the entire world to take the moral fucking high ground. The very next job I did after that one was a young mother for the mob. I never got told what she did but all I knew was that I had to get a female name out of her. First and last. The mob employed me so often that I sometimes figured they had me on speed dial. My most favored client was Vito Rizzuto. Very generous employer when I did my specials.

I didn't care who I tortured, who I killed, or why. I cared not for the reason, the person or the employer. All I cared about was making my money at the end of the day. At 4:00 in the morning I received a call from a private number asking me for my services, I did the usual routine, asked how much I would get paid and where to go. The higher the pay, the earlier I would leave. £1.6 million for one person. I fell out of bed. This was it, my big payday, I may never have to work again.

I sprung out of bed and rushed to the meeting point. I was led into a dark room with one light and a table in the middle where a person sat on a chair with the usual black bag on their head, the same kind used to conceal the heads of those making the death march toward their final moment facing the guillotine or gallows. "How poetic", I thought. I was unsure of this victim as it seemed shorter than the usual clientele, but then again, being seated can make anyone look smaller.

Recalling this place took me to the darkest parts of my heart, I can always feel my throat clench and tears begin to form whenever I take myself back to what I did in that room. As they shut the door I was left alone with my devices and this bagged up wreck.

I approached it, not knowing what I faced until I heard "Please..... please don't hurt me, I swear I did nothing wrong". Female, probably late teens, maybe around 16 or 17. It is hard to believe I have done worse than this.

Like I said, I didn't care who or why, I cared only for money. I took my worst weapons as I wanted to do a special, opening up my hellish case it may as well sang to me "1.6 million" as it opened. I was actually excited. Taking out my apparatus like some sort of demented scientist I ignored the small cries and whimpers emanating from the black bag. I eventually swiped the bag off her head and I was shocked at what I saw. A small, timid girl, looking so innocent and so scared. Tears streamed down her face providing a feeble plaster to cover the bruises across her face. I was stunned for a while, why would these people want this little child tortured? I put the bag back on and tapped the door.

A large man with slicked back blonde hair and a small scar placed next to his right eye accompanied with large black sunglasses responded as I queried my true objective in the interrogation of the whimpering teenager. This girl was his boss' daughter who had apparently tried to be friends with the nephew of a rival drug lord, this was punishment for disobeying him.

Even I, a malicious and soulless torturer­ for ­hire, was taken back by this information. Torturing your daughter for having a social life? It was by far the most strange and, to be honest, demented request I have been given. As the door slammed shut, two lives changed in that moment, the girl's and my own. I regathered my ruthless nature and proceeded. It was difficult for me since all the time I am constantly inquiring into a subject like "Where's the money" or "Give me information on the enemy's movements". This was just all out punishment. I started with some Chinese water torture, a good one for something in the background while we really get into the finer, detailed pain. I placed a hose on a chain above her head as the water slowly dripped on her head. I saw fear lessening in her eyes so I got to the other more precise methods.

I was told she was an arachnophobe so I placed a large, furry black tarantula on her leg and let it proceed up her body. I heard the first piercing scream of terror echo through the dark room. Her eyes clamped closed she stopped suddenly and began to only whimper. I was surprised, she was tougher than I gave her credit for. I left the spider to rest on her thigh, the water still dripping down. I forced my favourite Spanish Boot on her, casually hammering it on to her leg, forcibly causing her bones to crackle and her flesh would begin to tear under the intense pressure. The boot, made of iron would slowly warm up in this closed off room which would soon burn her skin severely.

I was given plenty of hours to do my worst, I gave her the most horrifying Chelsea grin, peeling her skin apart at the ends of her lips with a heated butter knife. I hung her by her legs and used the Heretic's Fork. The combination of the tarantula on her leg and the Spanish Boot beginning to scorch her skin off and burn her flesh would have been enough to keep her screaming for a whole day.

Unfortunately she caught on quickly to the use of the Heretic's Fork, knowing that even the slightest movement of her mouth would impale her at the throat.


I used most of my favorites, including a new one I learned on a TV show called Lost which involved placing sharp objects under the fingernails. I took up some shards of broken glass I had collected from an abandoned warehouse and placed them under her fingernails as she hung from the chain holding her. She attempted a small scream without opening her mouth. I knew that screaming for your life is therapeutic and lessens the pain slightly in terms of perspective. Cut off the screaming, bring out the true pain, that was my motto.


She proved to be extremely tough so I removed the Heretic Fork and waited to hear an earth shattering scream but she only turned to me and whispered one thing: "Please, you have so much, just use one of them and kill me. I can't take it anymore".

I was taken back by this. In my time as a torturer I had never been affected by a request such as this. Many past victims had been driven to insanity, screaming for their deaths but I never complied. I had never killed one before. I quickly shook this request and responded "No, I get paid to torture, not kill. I have my objective which is to cause pain, and you have your objective, which is to feel it". This response placed her in tears again but much more pain and sorrow emanated from each stream. I continued with my regular methods and heard her pained cries "Kill me, kill me" over and over again.


I kept placing myself past this and continuing until the henchmen would order me out. Soon enough the door opened as I was halfway through the procedures. She was by far the most durable victim I had ever come across, and as I looked back to admire my hellish work I truly noticed the full scale damage I had done. Her face, arms and legs were beyond recognition. Little peelings of skin were hanging off her cheeks, accompanied by the fresh cuts from the chelsea grin. Her legs were reduced to nothing but scalded flesh with bone peeking out at a few points.


Her arms covered in cuts and bruised from lashings and hands on beatings. For the first time, I was glad to be done with this job, I wanted to get out of that room as soon as possible but I made the mistake of looking back one more time and as I did I saw her blue eyes stare directly into my soul as she mouthed what I believed to be "I will find you". I was finally done, finally paid and finally home.


When I got home, even bathing in the money was not enough. I couldn't stop seeing her face and hearing her screams. She wasn't like other victims screaming for her parents or friends or God. She screamed for death. She screamed directly at me over and over again "Kill me. Please kill me. I don't want this anymore, I can't live with this. Just kill me now".

I was haunted for days by her face, constant nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat. Then I was hallucinating. I saw her and past victims as they visited my home.

They would sleep in my bed at night. They died over and over again in various places in my house, usually using one of my torture devices to take their life. I couldn't bear it a second longer. I prayed each day and throughout the night without rest for some small sign of help from the heavens but he didn't answer me. This would begin my penance. I thought the only way to forgiveness would be to place myself as my own victim. To torture myself to the point where I screamed for death. Now I see myself. The once notorious Angel of Death, the Inquisitor, was nothing more than an anorexic, withered wretch. I looked in the mirror yesterday and saw what I had done to myself for the first time.

This was not the result of my penance. This was the torture, being in the profession I so happily excelled at. My eyes were heavily baggy and blackened and were so red I couldn't remember what my true eye colour was.

My once regal and classy slicked black hair was long to my shoulders and thin like a model mosher. Unbeknownst to me I had grown a rather big, scraggly beard. My nose was crooked from constant battering and beating myself in fits of rage and sorrow. My cheeks had skin peeling off and what little skin I had left was leathery and grey. My lips were more scars than skin. My neck and overall physical appearance was a skinny, reedy, anorexic mess. Slowly wasting away into nothingness. My arms were scarred and bruised from lashing myself with a short whip. My fingernails and toenails were completely torn off.

Blood oozing freely from my trouser leg and out of my tattered and torn t shirt. I couldn't bear feeling this way. My penance was not enough to satisfy my release from my fears and memories. The faces I kept seeing were demanding my blood. All my victims were on the floor around me digesting and skin, flesh and blood that had fallen from me. I reached for my best knife. As I saw the blade sine on my face in the moonlight I felt peace from the thought of what I may do with it. I looked at what was my reflection in the blade and saw my original self. that demon, that devil, the one who mercilessly inflicted unimaginable pain to innocent souls with a smile on his face. His image sickened me, I was so angry. I was ready to take my life until I looked to my journal. I couldn't leave without confessing my wrong doings, as a sinner would go to the priest to confess, I looked to this book and a few old pencils strewn around the room to confess my story.


Admitting publicly what kind of person I was. So here we are. I am near the end and all I can think about is the final sentence I write. My hands are so weak, and I just want to sleep, forever. It's time, they are calling for me. I can see the little girl waiting for me impatiently. This is my true penance, but it cost me my life. The blade slithered its way into my heart and I felt the pain of every single victim I laid my remorseless hands on. A small price to pay for the sins I committed. Forgive me, for this is my penance.

© Copyright 2019 J.J. Matthews. All rights reserved.

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