I opened the door and vomited. The smell of rotten flesh and stale blood was simply overpowering. I looked away in disgust but clung onto the door handle. Gathering myself I proceeded into the small storage cupboard at the back of the shop.  I stroked the wall searching for a light switch, once I found it I pressed it on and nearly vomited again. All along the walls were crude implements of torture. Hanging up on a rack and stained with blood, there was a bicycle pump, a hammer  and chisel, an old rusted spade and a broom. Below the rack was a table lined with even more tools: a tray of different sized screwdrivers, half a glass jar with bloodied shards surrounding it, some needles, syringes and a selection of knives. Each piece of equipment looked ancient, rusted, weak and rotting. How could such items deal so much pain?
It was then that I scanned the area of the dimly lit room and saw him. He was sitting against the opposite wall of the tools in a chair, straps across his wrists and ankles. He was smothered with blood. It dripped from his eyes, it oozed from his chest, his knees, his fingers, it had streamed from his mouth and head and it pooled at his feet. Some blood had crusted over, leaving patches of dark crimson stuck to his body.
I made my way closer and upon inspection discovered the extent of his injuries. The side of his skull was dented and cratered. It was battered, mashed.  It looked as if I could poke through the bone if I were to touch it. His nosed was disfugured and flattened, ugly and squished sideways against his cheek, and his mouth was contorted into an impossible, unrecognisable expression. His lips were crusty with dried blood and his teeth, all four of them, were crooked and cracked. The rest lay floating or stuck in the congealing mass on the floor. He had bruising around his eyes and his earlobes had been snipped in half and pulled apart.
Moving down his body I noticed a series of holes, presumably done with the array of screwdrivers on the table behind me. There were five intricatly dug circular holes across his collar bone. Some went through the bone and out through his shoulder blades. He’d been skewered. His bounded hands had slits between each finger, which had been spread apart, widening each wound. Two of his fingers had been spread so far they were broken. His fingernails had also been removed, showing the red fleshy tissue beneath.
At this point I was on the verge of collapse. My heart had nearly fallen out my arse and sweat was gushing from every pore on my body. My eyes and mouth were dry for the shear fascinated horror of the spectical before me. I daren’t look at the corspe any longer but something was drawing me to continue the inspection. So, having turned away once again in disgust, I continued looking over the body. I saw that his knees appeared mushy and flattened, a similar consistancy to that of his nose. They’d taken a hammering, literally, and now lay like two bags of bread dough, soft and pudgy to the touch. I withdrew my finger and did all I could to hold down more vomit. I looked down at his feet and saw something even more terrifying. His feet. his toes to be exact, had stitches. All ten of them, stiitched up. They’d been removed, and stitched back onto his feet in the wrong order. His big toes now positioned where his little toes were, and his little toes appeared in between the other toes on each foot. His feet looked appauling. Like a child’s drawing, only done with their eyes closed while holding the pencil in their mouth. I couldn’t take another second of looking at this mass of blood, bruises and disfigurment. The entire corpse resembled a battered old Punch and Judy doll. The way he slumped in the chair all floppy and lifeless.
I got to my feet and turned to go back through the shop into the street. I made my way to the door, past the torture tools and through blood puddles, but had the door slammed suddenly in my face...

The End

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