Tormentor's routine

The sound of wet thwacks echoed through the subterranean corridors. Each impact of skin against skin was accompanied by a faint, exhausted whimper—a whimper from someone huddled in a cold, dark corner. Just hours earlier, this individual had been walking freely in the world above, entirely unaware that they were destined for a brutal corporal punishment.

The person possessed gray, sagging skin—most notably around the midsection—and a body no better than those of the other wretched denizens of the slums: frail and prone to unsettling creaks. Their downcast, gray eyes held no reflection of the dim sun, and their soul felt like a wad of cotton, constantly drifting away, pulling in the opposite direction of their physical form. If one could pull this meager soul into the physical realm, it would resemble a crumpled, aged piece of newspaper, disintegrating at the slightest touch. And the one holding it—clinging to it with every limb, exerting absolute dominion—was the very person who, with deliberate, painstaking effort, swung a lash time and again over skin now crimson with blood.

While his right hand—gripping the handle with regal authority—remained in motion, his left hand rested, relaxed, behind his back. His legs were planted firmly apart; the Tormentor’s breathing was steady, his slender frame showing no sign of wavering. This was not his first time carrying out the will of the Supreme Inspector, and he no longer trembled with agitation—or, perhaps, only the slightest bit.

In the one being punished, the Tormentor saw nothing more than an object—an object that had displeased the Inspector and was now rightfully undergoing execution. In the executioner’s own estimation, this particular execution was trivial—even a bit dull—but it was better than nothing. It cost him no effort to lash away at this crumpled, pathetic wretch, watching as strips of skin fell at his feet like sailors abandoning a sinking ship. The Torturer could no longer recall how many times he had looked upon faces twisted in agony. Perhaps, had he kept a tally, it would have been easier to gauge just how far his own sensibilities had drifted from those of an ordinary human being.