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“The purpose of torture is not getting information. It's spreading fear." -Eduardo Galeano

Torture is not death. Death is an escape from reality, a relief from the pain. Torture makes you wish you were dead, and makes you feel every moment of the pain.

Bruises littered her body, and there wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t scarred. “It’s payback time, dad.” The girl’s calm, monotone voice scared her dad. How can she be so calm! He thought. He struggled, to no avail. His hands had been tightly bound and taped to the back of his chair, and so had his mouth.

His own daughter, was standing in front of him, wearing the same red dress he had bought for her on her tenth birthday. “You do know why you are tied up, don’t you?” she asked, looking down at her dad, and continued: “I only wanted love and care, dad. I would be saying and doing the same to mom if she was here, but she’s dead. At first you two loved me, didn’t you? You even bought me the dress I’m wearing. Why did you start neglecting me? Why?” His daughter’s calm voice began shaking. “What have I ever done to you both? Ever since mom died, you started hurting me. I haven’t done anything to you, dad, so it’s time for payback.”

His daughter grabbed the pliers, an original and effective tool for torture. She turned around and tugged on the fingernail of his index finger. A rip could be heard, as the nail was torn off the finger, revealing the pink flesh underneath, and a steady flow of bright red blood accompanied the searing pain on his finger.

The pliers pulled another nail off, with the same tearing sound, and one by one, his nails were all torn off, the skin surrounding it ripped, and stained crimson. Pink and red flesh on the tips of the pliers were carefully wiped off. Her father’s face was scrunched up, and his breathing was rapid. Tears streamed down his soiled cheeks, to his daughter’s annoyance. “Dad, if I recall correctly, you would punish me for crying.”

Her father’s eyes widened in fear as his brain processed what she said. She grabbed her dad’s arm, and took out a needle and thread. “Mom used to like using the sewing machine,” she said, as she carefully inserted the needle into his skin, and pulled, yanking the needle and thread out the other side. Scarlet liquid dribbled out of the hole, as she repeated this process, stitching zigzag patterns into her father’s rough and sweaty skin.

When she was done, her father’s arm has turned into a bloody mess. His daughter smirked at her work and said, “Time for the real fun.”

Her thin, icy fingers slipped under the layers of thread, easily, due to the flow of blood. She gripped the thread tight, and pulled.

Her father’s skin and flesh was yanked off, along with the thread, spraying red mist everywhere. Looking closely, you could see some of the bone, peeking out underneath the hideous lump of flesh that was once her father’s arm, which now resembled mashed meat.

She had noticed her father was going to soon lose consciousness due to blood loss. It wasn’t unexpected though, and she had prepared for it. Grabbing a lighter, she turned it on and pressed it to her father’s mutated arm. The scent of burnt flesh filled the air, as her dad’s arm slowly burnt in agony. When she was done with the lighter, her dad’s arm resembled burnt steak, and was rendered unusable. 

“How do you feel?” she asked. “This was how I felt when you beat me, though you will never understand how much my heart hurt. Since I am incapable of making you feel the sadness I had felt, I have no choice but to double the physical pain.

“The last thing before you leave the stage, is your teeth. After I remove them, you can have the right to leave.” She picked up the hammer, ripped off the tape on his mouth, and placed the claw of the hammer to his teeth. “Ready for the last act?” she asked.

His teeth were yanked out, not unlike his fingernails. The same red mist that coated his fingers dribbled down his chin and throat, forcing him to swallow the blood that was gushing from his teeth to not choke. One after another, his teeth were yanked out and tossed to the floor. The stumps, where his teeth used to be, looked like spoiled ground beef. Her dad was nearly choking on his own blood, and coughed as he vomited blood. A sour stench filled the air.

Her daughter picked up the last instrument, the saw. “Time for you to exit the stage, and then we can close the curtains.”

The saw was placed on his stomach, and slowly begin to dig its way in, as the skin and flesh gave way, for the metal to enter his insides and to his organs. He didn’t even have the energy to fight, or scream, as the blades sawed into the soft pink flesh, and sanguine fluid poured out. The lighter was then pressed to what was left of his stomach, and lit his remains on fire.
 His daughter watched as the flames devoured the man who used to be her dad. “Goodbye father. Maybe in the next life, I won’t have to kill you.”

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