September 4: my favourite torturer

Suspicions as to the true nature of the offence had been aroused over a period of time. The suspect had been invited in to cohabit with his victim a number of years previously and given a position of some standing and significance in the home. It had gradually dawned on the victim that he was being systematically and progressively subjected to a process of what can only be described as wholesale manslaughter. The perpetration of the crime made itself apparent through a number of significant symptoms; his limbs aching; his back stiff, almost set in place by some dreadful lock, as though he were being bolted into a medieval stocks. It was the beginning of a drip-drop over a number of years aiming to destabilise the whole organism. Gradually such an application of pressure erodes the resistance, erodes the equilibrium of the whole musculature. Ironically, it had been the victim himself who had hand-picked his own torturer, chosen out of hundreds of applicants as being the one best equipped to provide satisfaction. And there was something about that relationship, a relationship the victim was loathe to reject. Surely, he thought, this cannot be the problem, surely there must be some other root cause of my affliction. But no, all evidence now pointed in one direction. It really was time for him to throw his favourite armchair out.

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