Another scene from my movie yet to be written/stilborn screenplay in the process, this time a bit more prose form than before.
The cross bar is made of metal tube, about an inch in diameter, supported by a length of chain run through its center which connects to two latching hooks affixed in the ceiling above. The arms are twisted through nearly a full rotation around the length of the bar, to where they are held at the ends by nylon strapping. It is the shear tension of the bindings and the tendons in the arms and shoulders, which make the rest of it possible.
From the shoulder, the spine makes a graceful curve, like a swan dive turned on its end, holding the entire body from there down into this tension strung arch. Knowing this is unsustainable, for any length of time really, there is a steel rod, perhaps a piece of rebar, bent into the exact curve, and affixed at neck, crossbar, waist, and ankles. Even when the strength of shoulders gives out, the body will not sag, Christ-like, on its metal cross. It will stay where it is, as it is meant to be.
Already there are half a dozen small wounds, most of them abrasions or lacerations, but nothing deep, nor actively bleeding. They've been meticulously cleaned, disinfected, and allowed to form neat, even scabs of their own. What bruises there are, mainly around the wrists and along the left side of the face, are superficial and barely show in this light.
It’s a fish tank sort of light, fluorescent, but filtered to a watery green blue by some unseen source. The light is still, the air is still. It’s the perfect light to show the pale skin, and the stark contrast of blood, an oozing black substance in this alien sound stage.
On a small folding sideboard, someone has neatly arranged several trays of instruments with the same neat and ominous seriousness of a dentist’s office before a visit. Each tray has its own blotter of surgical paper, nearly the same color as the light, as a back drop for the various metal tools arrayed on them. A gloved hand reaches out, hovering over them, and then picks a small, wickedly curved scalpel, looking to be from a dissection kit of very high quality.
The eyes are open now, watching the blade and the body attached to it move closer. Anticipation, is it, or is that expression fear? Its always so hard to tell.
And so the work begins, the arrangement of each slice like a brush stroke, each network of dripping lines forming alien letters on the parchment of flesh. The first series, down the chest, across the breastbones, down each leg, across each arm, and then the next, each iteration smaller, more precise.
In the beginning, there are only small sounds, half way between pleasure and pain. It is only when the real work begins that the screams start.
There, hopefully one day I'll work all this into something coherant.
The cross bar is made of metal tube, about an inch in diameter, supported by a length of chain run through its center which connects to two latching hooks affixed in the ceiling above. The arms are twisted through nearly a full rotation around the length of the bar, to where they are held at the ends by nylon strapping. It is the shear tension of the bindings and the tendons in the arms and shoulders, which make the rest of it possible.
From the shoulder, the spine makes a graceful curve, like a swan dive turned on its end, holding the entire body from there down into this tension strung arch. Knowing this is unsustainable, for any length of time really, there is a steel rod, perhaps a piece of rebar, bent into the exact curve, and affixed at neck, crossbar, waist, and ankles. Even when the strength of shoulders gives out, the body will not sag, Christ-like, on its metal cross. It will stay where it is, as it is meant to be.
Already there are half a dozen small wounds, most of them abrasions or lacerations, but nothing deep, nor actively bleeding. They've been meticulously cleaned, disinfected, and allowed to form neat, even scabs of their own. What bruises there are, mainly around the wrists and along the left side of the face, are superficial and barely show in this light.
It’s a fish tank sort of light, fluorescent, but filtered to a watery green blue by some unseen source. The light is still, the air is still. It’s the perfect light to show the pale skin, and the stark contrast of blood, an oozing black substance in this alien sound stage.
On a small folding sideboard, someone has neatly arranged several trays of instruments with the same neat and ominous seriousness of a dentist’s office before a visit. Each tray has its own blotter of surgical paper, nearly the same color as the light, as a back drop for the various metal tools arrayed on them. A gloved hand reaches out, hovering over them, and then picks a small, wickedly curved scalpel, looking to be from a dissection kit of very high quality.
The eyes are open now, watching the blade and the body attached to it move closer. Anticipation, is it, or is that expression fear? Its always so hard to tell.
And so the work begins, the arrangement of each slice like a brush stroke, each network of dripping lines forming alien letters on the parchment of flesh. The first series, down the chest, across the breastbones, down each leg, across each arm, and then the next, each iteration smaller, more precise.
In the beginning, there are only small sounds, half way between pleasure and pain. It is only when the real work begins that the screams start.
There, hopefully one day I'll work all this into something coherant.
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