Fate of a Murderess

Part 4: The Shop Window

Crucifixion is probably the most fiendish means of execution devised by the minds of men. For sheer simplicity, effectiveness and the amount and duration of suffering caused, it outranks just about every other device ever invented. Most other methods would last under an hour at the longest, but there are records of crucified people lasting for days before finally expiring.

For her first few minutes on the cross, Jennifer was aware most of all of the pain in the tendons in her legs, the awful stretching as her feet were driven into unnatural positions by even more unnatural metalwork. She was a fit, tough woman and her legs were strong enough for the time being, even in their current shape, of holding her weight.

Her long blonde hair was scattered and tangled, falling untidily all about her, some across her face, some between her head and the wood behind it, and some around the crossbeam or behind the upright. She longed for a breeze to take it away from her face, because every time she drew breath, her own hair threatened to be sucked into her mouth.

She was also acutely aware of the sun beating down on her, her pale European skin unfit for such direct rays. Her cross had been positioned, by accident or design, to face south and the brightness forced her to squint and turn her head to one side. Her skin was coated in sweat from the relentless heat whose myriad fingers burrowed to her very core in greedy waves.

She was almost thankful to Doctor Brava that he had pierced her hands with his nails well before she had been forced up onto this cross, for that pain she did not have to endure so heavily now. Instead, for a while it was merely discomfort from many sources that filled her awareness.

But the remnants of those nails were unforgiving when her whole weight was upon them, and in her feet they had smashed through bones that then were given no time to heal. That pain existed and grew in her consciousness. Growing, too, was the tension and tightness in her legs, beyond discomfort and into anguish and finally, foot and leg could hold her weight no more in the sapping heat of the African afternoon. Slowly, gently, Jennifer tried to bend her legs and take some weight onto her arms.

She was stretched enough, both vertically and laterally, that the slightest adjustment was communicated instantly to the rest of her body. Her arm-muscles suddenly sang in high-pitched tones as they were brought into tension. Her hands, too, were run through with Doctor Brava's surgical metal, and as weight shifted to them, their twisted, ruined inner workings were aggravated once more, flaring up in the sharp reminder of what had been done. But the leg muscles and foot bones needed more slack yet if they were to recover, and so the hands and arms had to take more, stretch further and suffer more painfully to allow it.

Yet the cycle was not done: for as the legs gave way further, and the arms were stretched higher and further back against the sinking torso, the tightness across the chest began. Where Jennifer had been breathing freely and carefully to avoid choking on her own hair, now she was having to work hard just to gulp in as much as she could with what she had. Soon, she could scarcely draw breath at all, and spluttering on hairs that had indeed entered her gaping mouth. She could do nothing else but push back down with her feet and aching legs and lock them out once again, enduring once more the grating of broken bones and the stretching of sinews once again.

She was unrested in her legs, her arms and hands ached and blazed with pain, and she was short of breath and partially smothered by her own hair. Yet Jennifer knew that this would happen again and again, because she could not hold her legs rock-steady forever; they would start to give again, and she would be forced into the same cycle of torment. And each time, the increase in her suffering would be her own fault as her resolve would crack and give way to the weakness of her body.

* * * * *

From eight different vantage points, DV cameras were recording the whole affair: one of them in close-up on the victim's face and adjusted for her movements by one of the technically-minded DeMoeiras; four recorded the full length of the cross from various angles including front-on and various side angles. Another recorded the whole arena with the cross and its occupant centre-screen. Two more were at floor-level close to the cross, looking up at its length and the length of Jennifer's body. One of these was to her left at 45 degrees; the other was to her right, at 75 degrees from the line of the crossbeam, giving a more frontal view. On a vast cinematic screen, all eight were displayed to the watching family and their valued customers; in the centre of the screen, a slightly-delayed picture was showing anything that seemed of particular interest at the time, in the eyes of another DeMoeira who fancied himself as a film director. The final editing of this epic masterpiece of sales material would, however, be left to those who truly understood what was happening, and what was required from their footage. A few of the most loyal customers would be allowed to take the original footage to cut their own versions for private use. Doctor Lucas Brava watched carefully as the fruits of his labour were put to the test.

The gathered people did not focus on the screen the whole time, for this was going to be a very long show. Instead, they treated the occasion as any large family group might treat a chance to get together and exchange the latest news and gossip. James Edward and his two eldest sons were talking earnestly with the various military leaders who had graced the event with their presence, discussing the latest uses to which DeMoeira equipment had been put and ways in which the existing implements might be improved, or confirming new orders for the old favourites.

On the screen, Jennifer's face grew ever more strained and anguished, as she pushed herself to the limit each time in a vain effort to gain some brief respite from one element or other of her suffering. A new main picture appeared: uncontrolled tears were streaming down the girl's face, her lips were dried and sweat dripped from every line.

Doctor Brava crept out of the room.

* * * * *

Hours had past since she had been nailed up, and in the relentless and still heat, Jennifer had sweated heavily and without pause. Her lips felt as though they were made of sandpaper and her throat was little different. It was becoming hard to think, and thirst raging and unending added itself to the agony that consumed her.

When she saw Doctor Brava appear carrying a bucket full of water, she cried out with relief, "Thank God!"

But the Doctor did not come any closer: "Thank who?" he asked.

"Thank Doctor Lucas Brava," Jennifer croaked.

"That's better," the doctor responded, and he came the rest of the way. In his other hand, he was carrying a long pole and a strange contraption attached to it. Its purpose Jennifer could not determine until Brava was at the foot of the wooden column.

Attached to the pole was a long rubber tube, and it was obvious that this was to pass water up to the mouth of the victim on the cross. Attached to the tube near the other end was something else that she could not identify from her unusual perspective.

Dr. Brava put the free end of the tube into the bucket of water, and lifted the other end on the pole to Jennifer's mouth. Greedily, she tried to suck, but no fluid would come. Dr. Brava laughed at her.

"Silly little bird in your tree! Don't you know that rain always falls, but never rises? It is a scientific fact that the human mouth is not a powerful enough suction pump to lift water that far. If you want it, I must use my foot pump to help you."

He pumped the strange contraption a few times with his foot, and sure enough a gout of water spewed from the raised end of the tube, spraying over Jennifer's face.

He held the pipe closer, a few centimetres from Jennifer's lips, but also a little bit lower than them.

"I won't move it from this point," he said, and pumped again, hard. The splash of water fell well below Jennifer's mouth.

"If you want to drink, you'll have to stretch for it."

Jennifer needed to drink. Desperately, she leaned her body weight forwards, pushing her head out from the pillar to try to catch the tube and maybe gain some relief. Her arms screamed at her, her hands twisting now and punishing her fractured bones there as well. But she had to drink. Her ankles were eased slightly by the change in attitude, but other stresses were introduced in her feet, and the broken bones there shifted and grated anew. But she had to drink.

Triumphantly, she took the rubber between her teeth only for Brava to snatch it away again. She took another desperate lunge after it with her teeth, and screamed horribly as her hands were wrenched impossibly once more. She fell back from that lunge, and Brava let her drink, pumping spurt after spurt of water into her gaping maw, spilling some to soothe her lips and then pumping again. Nearly two litres in a minute or two, Jennifer gratefully swallowed, and then she thanked the doctor again for giving her something to drink. Only then did she realise that she was having trouble breathing again.

Lucas Brava was a very intelligent man, and he had timed his drinks run with great care. It had served two purposes: one, was to make sure that Jennifer did not die of dehydration and thereby spoil the effect; two, was to persuade her to abandon the support afforded her by the sturdy upright post. He had made sure that she was already tired and her limbs worn out before going, and now he was fairly sure that she would not be able to regain her original upright posture.

Jennifer was just discovering the diabolical cleverness behind the trick with the water. Suddenly, with her arms completely overstretched, she had no strength in them to pull herself back. Although briefly it had seemed that her legs had had a slight improvement from it, she was now finding that they too were suffering more as she had to use them not only to counter the vertical force of her weight, but now they had to fight at an angle to support it. And the suffocating effect that was the fatal element of the crucifixion was now accentuated, as her arms were bent back behind her, locking the ribs and their intercostal muscles, and making her diaphragm do all the work of breathing. Her diaphragm too was compromised by the position of her lower body, as she found herself forming an ever more bowed shape (though that effect was invisible on most of the cameras, since she had been stretched so tightly to begin with). Given just a little extra stretching, there was less that the muscle could do to power the lungs, and so the basic operations of the respiratory system were all severely limited.

* * * * *

At first, the viewing room had been filled with boos when they saw the doctor on his apparent mercy mission. But when they saw how he had manoeuvred Jennifer into an even more punishing situation, they laughed out loud at his cunning and their own misunderstanding of his deeds. When he re-entered the chamber, it was to an uproarious cheer from all present.

* * * * *

Jennifer had no way of knowing how long she had hung there, and it was irrelevant in the broader landscape of her pain. Hours had passed before Dr. Brava brought relief at such a terrible price. Hours followed in greater agony than before.

Jennifer's lungs were a pit of fire in her chest, her skin was baking under the sun that was only now, it seemed, sinking towards the horizon. Her limbs blazed from constant abuse, the effort of supporting her weight and trying uselessly to lift herself back to the relative ease of the vertical position, and the twisting and grinding of the Brava Nails against her damaged and broken hands and feet.

It felt like drowning while in the fresh air: slowly, excruciatingly drowning for ages untold by man while all around her the life-giving oxygen was at her lips and in her mouth but would never reach her hungry lungs. Each lungful was a struggle, more difficult than the last, and never actually filling the lungs but giving just enough to last until the next breath. Her head hung forwards, no strength reserved for the neck muscles when it was needed more elsewhere.

Gone now was her steady, careful control of her actions. Her legs were tested as though by having run marathon after marathon, her arms as though she had carried a great stone above her head on those races. She could no longer hold any position, but gyrated from one to another: the knees would bend a little and the arms tighten and strain, twitching right to the fingers that could do no more than that. Then the chest would tighten, and she would suffocate a little more. The legs would push upwards again, feebly, aided by the tormented arms and she would gulp a little more air as the arms muscles relaxed minutely, and then the knees would give way again immediately. It was like some drawn-out, slow-motion butterfly stroke, working every part of her beyond their natural limits.

Sinking. Drowning. Resurface. Again, and again, every minute a repetition of ever-changing, ever-demanding pain.

* * * * *

The sun was rapidly descending in the sky, and had lost its ferocity of the afternoon. The DeMoeiras re-emerged to watch the show in the flesh, rather than by video link. The desperately slow writhing of their naked victim was now grotesquely erotic, as though she were being gently screwed by some invisible giant who caressed her as his unseen penis slowly ground into her and out again, and she riding him in the same manner.

In or near the Tropics, the sun sets very quickly, appearing to accelerate as it approaches the horizon, and so it was not long before it was growing dark in the DeMoeira compound. Bright floodlights replaced the glare of the sun. Now, the heat of the day was dissipating quickly into the cold of the African desert at night. Now, at last, a breeze started to drift its way around the buildings of the complex.

Jennifer was still coated with her sweat, which had poured from her all through the day. A new distress assaulted her senses as her burning skin began to cool rapidly. The breeze that would have been welcomed a few hours ago as now an instrument of most hideous torture, accelerating the cooling process by speeding her sweat's evaporation. Uncontrolled shivering started across her body, disrupting her breathing even more and making it even harder for her to push firmly enough with her legs as the muscles were occupied not only with the vital work of lifting her so that she could keep breathing, but also the vital work of shivering and generating heat so that she did not freeze to death.

In the grandstand, James Edward consulted the doctor: "Should we bring her down now, to keep her a bit fresh for the next operation?"

"No, it would already take her several days to recover sufficiently to survive that process. Might as well leave her up there to the end."

James Edward went out into the courtyard, once again briefly taking the role of MC: "I have just been promised by Dr. Lucas Brava that we will in fact be taking Jennifer all the way!" A whooping cheer went up at this news while James Edward returned to his seat. To Jennifer it meant nothing, for she had no way of knowing that there had been a brief moment when she might have been brought down sooner. Instead, the announcement and the cheering washed over her as so much irrelevant noise: her whole universe was composed of a cross, four nails and the air of which she could never get enough.

* * * * *

The end did not take much longer. Two hours after sunset, and Jennifer's legs had finally given up completely and she was sagging, all her weight carried by her hands. She choked as she failed completely to draw breath, and felt herself slipping from the world. Her last thought was, "At least they went too far, and will not enjoy my pain any more."

She went down from her breath cycle, and her limbs twitched but she did not rise again. At that, James Edward gave a quick glance to Dr. Brava, who nodded, and instantly the teams swung into action. They knew that there was every chance that Jennifer was suffocating while ever she hung like that.

Ropes were cast about the arms of the cross, and a circular saw taken to the base of the cross. Crews with medical equipment were standing by ready for the moment that the cross came down. The felling of the cross was carried out in immaculately controlled fashion, and achieved less than a minute from when the go signal had been given.

An artificial breathing apparatus was attached to Jennifer's face, forcing oxygen-enriched air into her lungs and sucking it back again, doing the work that her body was currently unfit to do. Others worked quickly to withdraw the nails from the wood and flex the arms and legs to stimulate blood flow. They had already established that there was still a faint pulse, so if they did their jobs properly, Jennifer would live to die another day, and another.

In the stands, none of this was apparent and everyone there watched with baited breath. The dramatic "death" on the cross had excited them all, but it would be no joy if it proved to have been a genuine fatality. Jennifer's still body was loaded onto a hard stretcher, accompanied by the breathing machine, and carried into a second medical facility on one side of the courtyard.

* * * * *

The audience adjourned to the viewing room once more, where James Edward spoke once more to the customers and his clan members.

"I must apologise for the fact that we went for the dramatic and spectacular, rather than the practical when we selected the cross for our first demonstration. Dr. Brava is currently overseeing the recovery operation, but assures me that Jennifer will eventually give us the pleasure of seeing her in action again – and many more times after that as well, I hope. She will convalesce in preparation for a further round of treatment under the good doctor's scalpel. Let me reassure our honoured guests that we have developed a range of crosses that will make recovery of the victim much easier. In the meantime, let's relive some of the highlights of the evening's entertainment!"

The video screen sprang into life again. Before long, James Edward had secured at least three firm contracts for delivery of the components of the Brava Nails Process, including one with a "hinged cross" installation.