Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

I catch my reflection in the darkened widescreen and turn to the side, analyzing my legs, the way my knee-length skirt hugs my thighs. A thought flits through my mind—one second of curiosity over how Grayson perceives me—then it’s safely snuffed out as I face the TV and push the button to play the disc.

An image of a rusted metal room brightens to life. A low hum buzzes at my ears. I click the volume higher, then halt when someone enters the view. A tall man with a pot belly and disheveled gray suit.

His tie is tugged away from his neck, like he’s been pulling at it. His dirty blond hair a disarrayed mess, as if it’s suffered the same harsh treatment as his necktie. He’s harried as he searches the dimly lit room. His hands feel over the tarnished walls, seeking tirelessly as a string of hushed curses fall from his mouth.

Breath bated, I watch him cover every inch of the room, and when he falls to his knees, clawing at his hair, that’s when I see it. Descending from above, just peeking onto the screen, are cables. Thick black cables. At the end of each a manacle. One large harness rests amid the dangling shackles.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the string I keep at the ready. I tighten the thread around my index finger as I watch. A garbled voice sounds out through the room.

“Brandon Harvey. You have a chance to free yourself from the prison in which you’ve created. You’re guilty of molesting children. Although you’ve beaten the system and you’re a free man in the eyes of the law, it’s now time to pay for your sins. The eyes of justice are not blind.”

“Fuck you!” the man shouts.

“Secure yourself into the harness. Then cuff your wrists and ankles into the shackles.”

The man flips off the room, and as he screams obscenities, a loud noise buzzes over the speak

er system. One by one, panels along the walls flip over. The faces of children appear—young children—in a domino effect that covers the room.

Oh, God. I stumble backward, awkwardly finding my seat, my legs unable to hold my weight.

“The faces of your victims will be your reminder,” the voice says. “This is your only chance to redeem yourself. Choose. Redemption or death.”

I try to picture the man in my office from just hours ago as the concealed person behind the camera. The man I’ve been examining for the past week doesn’t appear to harbor sadistic tendencies, yet the proof before me is undeniable.

Grayson is a sadist.

What’s more, he’s an expert in deceit.

Before I become too involved, I reach for my journal and jot down my observations. A loud clang recaptures my attention and I’m forced to watch—I can’t look away from the screen.

The man in the suit does as instructed, cursing the whole time he shackles himself into the harness and cuffs. When he’s effectively restrained, the cables snap taut, lifting him off the ground. The hollow noise I heard before is revealed as the floor beneath him moves aside to expose an open panel. A stool rises into the room from below.

It’s not just a stool… I squint as I try to discern the pyramid-shaped seat, and all too soon, realization dawns. Some distant memory from history class resurfaces to give me the name of the torture device.

“A Judas Cradle,” I breathe.

A mediaeval torture device that has no place in this scene erects below the struggling man, its pointed tip aimed directly between his spread legs. I know what’s about to happen, but even as I realize this, I can’t stop watching.

The string around my finger cuts off my circulation, the throb pulsing in sync to my increasing heart rate. As the cables descend, the man is stretched and lowered, his limbs pulled at every angle. His struggle is useless as he’s slowly dropped onto the metal pyramid. His shouts turn into cries of pain as the pointed tip of the torture device makes contact with his rectum.

“Pass this test,” the garbled voice says, “and you’re free to go. You’ll have suffered the same excruciating pain you forced on your victims. Like you, they were bound against their will, unable to fight. All you have to do is last twelve hours—one hour for each of your victims—to be redeemed.”

My eyes close briefly. Twelve hours. I grab the CD case from the table and read over the label, noting the duration of the copied film. There’s six hours of recorded footage.

“I can’t take it!” the man shrieks. “Let me go! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A rope drops from the ceiling, dangling close to the man’s face. “You can stop the torture at any time,” the voice announces. “But to end your immediate suffering, you have to be willing to end your life.”

The humming grows louder, drowning out the screams. The cables rack his body as gravity takes hold, forcing him down onto the point. I’m transfixed by the scene. Wondering if Grayson watched the entirety of the torture.

Grayson is extremely intelligent. His file states genius. With an IQ of 152, he sees the world differently than the average person. He sees people differently. He sees me differently.

I hold the remote outstretched, ready to fast-forward to the end, but I change my mind. To know my subject—to get inside their head and understand them, learn their motivations—I have to endure what they borne.

Majority of the time, I’m limited in how close I can get to a patient. Grayson recording his “sessions” with his victims presents a unique opportunity to peel back the layers and study his impulses. This is what I tell myself as I sit through hours of footage, unable to take my eyes off the tortured pedophile.

Beneath my professional curiosity, I am human, and I cringe at the revolting act—but I feel little remorse for this man when I glance at the faces of the children around the room. Do I think a lifetime in prison is a suitable punishment for his crime? I’m not sure that I do. At least on a personal level. Is Grayson justified in his method to punish where the law failed? Simply, that’s a question for someone else. It doesn’t pertain to his diagnosis.