Page 17 of Unbalanced

Frank Lewis, the sad sack he is, has been here for three days without ever knowing what happened or how he ended up in this position. That is the beauty of what I do. They go to bed peacefully, then wake up in hell.

I call this the reflection period. My form of punishment has very strict stages. Matching them to words that most people relate to on a spiritual level makes them more impactful.

During reflection, I like to give them empty hours in darkness with nothing to do but think about all they’ve done and how they have ended up in this position.

Stage two is atonement. The lights came on last night so Mr. Lewis could finally see his prison. That is when the begging and apologies for things I don’t even care about come flying out of their mouths.

Frank does not disappoint. His screams send a shiver down my spine and a tingle to the tip of my cock. I’m not sure there is anything sweeter than the shriek of true terror.

Mr. Lewis is a pitiful story, and now he properly matches his life. Gone are the thousand-dollar shoes, the Armani suit, and the three-million-dollar home. He’s been reduced to his natural state, hanging naked, covered in feces, piss, and sweat. His chin rests on his chest as the lights softly flicker.

His lips are moving, so I press the intercom to hear what he’s saying. Incoherent words tumble out and crackle through the speaker.

Releasing the button, I head to my office. It’s a smaller yet identical version of my father’s. A constant reminder of why I do this, and why I’ve chosen to teach these sinners what it means to repent. Repentance is the best these deviants can hope for before death. There is no redemption…not for those like Mr. Lewis.

I hold up my hand and stare at the Mitchell insignia in the gold and onyx ring before taking it off and setting it on the desk beside an old family photograph. I change into my work clothes and leave my suit hanging in the office. The last thing I pull on is my mirrored skull mask.

Stage three is the confession, and it is sacred. Most believe that it requires a church, a priest, and mercy. I do not.

The mirror is older than any of God’s houses and far more honest. Some sins do not stain hands but leave a mark on a soul’s reflection. That is why it is hardest to look oneself in the eyes, for the truth is always there.

I find it deeply poetic that the last thing these sinners see before death is their own face staring back. In those final moments, they realize that Hell has not risen up to meet them. No…it has been inside of them all along.

When the door opens to the inner sanctum, Mr. Lewis’s head snaps up. He looks like a scared raccoon with dark circles under his eyes, and his confusion is palpable.

“Who…who are you?”

I don’t respond.

Whistling Amazing Grace, I grab the hose from the wall. I uncoil it until I’m standing in front of Mr. Lewis. Then I look up. He licks his lips, goosebumps raising on his skin as every instinctual warning goes off in his body at the same time.

He glances at the intravenous line of vitamins and hydration, slowly dripping into his body and keeping him alive.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me? Do I know you? Have I wronged you?”

His scream when I hit him with the ice-cold water is a beautiful serenade. One that I savor as I continue to whistle and clean him off before doing the same to the floor, washing all the shit and piss down the drain.

“Please…”

Mr. Lewis is shaking hard, the chains rattling along with him. I slowly roll the hose, ensuring each loop is perfectly even and balanced. Then I grab my favorite tool.

“I…I can’t feel my arms or legs,” he says as I walk toward him, like that will make me feel bad.

“It’s for the best,” I say, the voice modulator in the mask making each word sound more disturbing than the one before.

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe.”

I lock the metal arm into the track on the floor. It takes me seconds to adjust the length so that the pristine metal blade presses against his skin. He tries to bow his body away, but he is too weak, and it is no use. Mr. Lewis just stares at my device, designed much like an apple peeler.

He licks his lips and tries to threaten me.

“Do you know who I am?”

I smile at the ridiculous question even though he cannot see it.

“I’m important. People will be looking for me,” he says, stuttering through the chill and the fear bubbling inside of him.