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by Syn Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Death · #1477828
Events of Paid Torturing. Inspired by the Film 'Hostel'
The Following Poem was inspired by the film ‘Hostel’. Due to the Explicit Content. I advise Only persons 18+ should read the following.



The Corridor



Somewhere below a cities somewhat clean disguise, beneath the kindness of certain civilians traces a fraud behind their identity. Do not listen to the lies and deceit you may hear from these harlots and fakes. As they shall lead you being carried against your will through the corridor.

         If you do mistake these liars for people trying to help you, you will find yourself tricked. Led into a warehouse that looks abandoned, apart from shifty characters you’d rather not interfere. You look into the warehouse to see a large industrial corridor. You progress through it, looking at each of the rusty steel doors that could hide anything. There’s a door open at the end. You peek in to see what’s inside, what’s there but a man in overalls, blood crimson descending down his attire, onto the bloody ground. Opposite him, you cannot tell. Where the face used to be visible is now a grim disfigurement mix of blood, tears and vomit. The victim strapped to a chair like an act of bondage. The victim a mere shadow of himself, screaming out in pain and mercy, limbs apart from his body and spread across the floor. Such a heinous act of human cruelty, murder, torture. As you step back from the gruesome sight. Hands grab your arms to hold you back. You cannot run. You are now a captured prisoner. You realise the trick that has been played to you, the lure the faker has brought you. But now its too late. You are dragged through the corridor, into a room, strapped to a chair. The blood from the past victim is seeping through your trousers. You can feel it on the back of your thighs, its an unpleasant feeling that makes your stomach break out. The door is locked once the men leave you, alone. You look around you to see your surroundings are but weapons. Drills, hammers, blades, firearms, blowtorches and chainsaws. You dread to think what these tools are doing there, why you are here, and what’s going to happen next. The lights turn out. The only audible noises you hear are people going past the door outside, men chatting outside, the tools and screaming coming from other rooms, and the noise of your fear. The noise of your fear is almost impossible to block out when your alone in the dark.





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