Words: 841

Ad mala patrata haec sunt atra theatre parata- Dark theaters are suitable for dark deeds, ran through his mind again and again as Quenton sifted through a stack of books, one by one, that sat faithfully next to one of his two chairs that faced the window in his tiny efficiency. But the pale North light of morning dappled his chest with white and grey, and showed his hair as a messy fan of bone loosed over his shoulders and down in feathers along his ribs. The bandages at his throat crossed and recrossed holding him together so that his mind couldn't escape his body completely. He could not afford to go out tonight or maybe a few nights. His persistence in continuing wounded a second time had ended up almost a death sentence if the hero knight had not happened by and equally happened to decide to help him. It was too many ifs for comfort and for him to rely on. Chance was fickle. If he had even one partner then they could bear each other up, but as it was? No such luck.

'Morality is nothing more than an expression of expediency' was once replied to objections about this profession. The development of the so called art spanned as long as humans had been punishing each other from the primitive exile or stoning, to medieval strappado, to modern, highly specialized and scientific brainwashing rooted in behavioral engineering. Each era had new derivations and divisions of distortions to both mind and body to inflict on their brethren. There was more to it all, though, than just sophisticated theories or notations on technique.

If I am choosing to pursue this at all, or to employee it, it will not be under any pretense of ignorance- not of what it means to the doer or the receiver. Abhorrent were the excuses of many who claimed they were 'only following orders', like that made them somehow less culpable or able to understand what they were inflicting. The professional role torture played in history was as important to his decision as the refinements of the practice of torture by individuals, religious groups, the military and specific cultures. Torture meant moral implications as well. As a part of crime and punishment, it necessitated his own solidification of views on human rights, personal and political freedom and in the possibility (or lack thereof) of reform compared to risk of relapse.

Parts of the research was more nauseating than others- the specifics of devices, their terms of use and estimates of lives ruined by each, and how the effects of nonlethal interaction played out for survivors of the various machinery were worse than the high level philosophy that was divorced from specific situations. Over the course of multiple books just about every culture and time period was covered from ‘native’ tribal peoples of the Americas and Africa, Europeans and their many wars, modern-day police, slavery, conquering and colonization, and religious persecution such as the Inquisition. Specific examples abounded, all well-documented accounts from families of the dead, survivors, the torturers themselves, the legal systems, and other inmates. The ingenuity of the human race for destroying itself, constantly reinventing, improving, or spearheading new developments in the field of torture, was confounding.

When the reading was done, a task of some hours that clocked more truly as days, Quenton started the worst part of his self-appointed sojourn- returning to earlier, color-flagged pertinent parts to review and digest. The most of the excerpts he'd found were broken into three subjects- arguments for and against the utilization of torture in war, the studied effects on the inflictor and inflictee ("victim" implied innocence, which was not always the case), and methods that were pertinent to his own and other senshi's needs- cheap, portable, effective with little setup or maintenance. By the end of that bit of transcription, he was shaky and left to find the Outside world and nearing Winter.

He needed air.

I’ll review them later. I need to think. I need to breathe, why is it so hard to breath. I do not want to wear this mantle. I do not want to be this person. If not me, then who? I must do what is needed. I must be what is missing. There must be a rock that the waves of the enemy break upon, roots that the other can reach for and cling to, boughs that protect them, fruit that nourishes, flowers that brighten and heal them. I am order, what is a Garden but the message and poetry of nature and hearts of men in accord. Gardens speak of seasons, of war, or fertility, or harvest, of minimalism and of raucous, elaborate pattern. I cannot hide from this.

But not...just yet to draw the lines confirming letters and trinkets to be carried. Not just yet the full decision and everything I must accept. I need something warm to stop my hands from shaking. I need something before I vomit.