Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-9041013-20151203195012

 There was a time, when I was younger, that believed I am invincible. I thought I couldn't be stopped, couldn't be harmed... I was sure I could do anything I wanted to and so I became an executioner, I know, I know, it's a tough job. I've to admit, my first time was nerve wrecking, in fact they all were. In my first execution I had to hang some Iraqi terrorist, it was a rather simple "show". The guy was tied up, and placed standing atop of a chair, I put a short noose around his neck and then kicked the chair away. The Iraqi guy went crushing down, the rope breaking his neck and he struggled for a couple of moments until he finally passed away. I was on the verge of tears after seeing what I had done but the money was worth it.



 I kept working in the states for a couple of year but when you get 20 - 30 calls a year for a job; You get bored and you dont earn enough money. Thus I moved to Iran. Having an appearence that resembles that of the locals and good learning skills I was able to assimilate easily into the local society. Unlike in the states however, here I would have a job almost every day and unlike in the states I didn't hang, poison or electrocute the criminals. I had to cut off their bloody heads for the most part, yes, this still happens behind the closed doors of the Ayatollah's regime.



 At first it was hard, seeing all this blood splatter, hearing their screams up close, making a clean cut but with time I got used to it, and as I did get used to it, my job took it's toll on me. Depressions, lack of sleep, never ending stress - I've started suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I checked myself in for medical help and took a break from work. I was getting better, when my mental problem went away I resumed my work, and this time I learned how to block away my emotions, and when that didn't work I ran away to the bottle, it helped me a lot better.



 That all changed when I started hearing knocking and clawing whenever I was alone. I dismissed it as nothing but as the noises went on I got frustrated and marched to the neighbour's apartment to ask them to stop. To my surprise the old couple wasn't making any noise at all, they were surprised I came to them over such a matter. It hit me, harder than ever before, my PTSD is back, I tried getting some medical help and it didn't get any better, in fact the noises got worse - they turned into the voices of humans. I thought I was developing Schizophrenia or something but no one could really explain what was going on with me. Over time the voices got louder and louder; from simple moans  and grunts it turned into whispers. Horrible whispers that called my name and said things like "join us!" or "we're waiting for you..."



 At first I just ignored the calls, I stopped speaking to my colleagues or the inmates or anybody, I even became known as the "Silent Ripper" whenever I was inside a facility. Sadly enough that didn't stop the voices, They got louder and louder soon enough they turned into screams! The voices I heard did not sound like they're coming from inside my head anymore; they sounded like they're coming from near me, as if a person was standing next to me and shouting at me. The things they were telling me, Oh dear God... I was blamed for their deaths, I was told of the Devil and his fallen angels. Worst of all, however, were the describtions of Hell, which came at night while I was trying to fall asleep. The stories of Hell included a room full of mirrors in which whenever you make even the slightest glimpse at a mirror you relive your death all over. Some voices told me of an endless pitch black pools they're stuck in hearing the occassional screams of other victims of Hell as if they were right beside them while they're completely alone. The worst stories of all were about murderers, they included a ceremonial devouring of the murderer by demons while he feels every last bit of sensation as his or her flesh is being torn slowly from their body or as the vile spawns of Satan sink their teeth and claws into their bodies causing pain equal to being in the epicenter of a nuclear explosion for what seems like days only to be fixed and relive this cicle of torture forever.



 At the end of each night the voices would go quieter and begin whispering of a field full of white trees covered in red, standing inside a shallow pool of stale blood. On the branches of these trees were hung those who commited suicide. These sinners, as the voices whispered to me, would just swing from their brench for all eternity crying tears of blood that created the shallow pool beneath them as they are no longer able to feel anything at all.



 The notion of living forever with the voices of the residents of hell for longer than I already have makes me sick to my stomach so I decided to take this knife from the Cafeteria and put it to a good use.



 The look on the doctors' faces is priceless; They frown as if they're sad, but also angry. Like any of that really ever mattered. Oh look Little Dr. Trusk is crying - she was always a little too sensitive for this kind of job, if I may say so.



<p style="margin-top:0px;margin-bottom:0px;"> Oh well, at least the voices went completely silent. <ac_metadata title="The Executioner&#039;s Song"> </ac_metadata>