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scripttorture · 6 years ago

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Hello! I was wondering if you could point me towards some examples of well-written torture scenes? Your give great advice on the psychology and historical side of things, but I was wondering if you have any good examples of "torture done right" in writing (ie. written tastefully, plausibly, and without being apologia). Thanks!

Doyou maybe have some examples of well-written torture scenes? Whetherit’s a book or a fanfiction or whatever. Something you yourself readand liked (as far as a torture scene could be… liked).

I’m combining these two asks because they’re so similar.

This is honestly really difficult for me. Not because there aren’t brilliantly written scenes out there. It’s because since I started the blog (and writing seriously) I’ve had a lot less time to read fiction. At this point I’ve read a lot more victim statements then I have fictional torture scenes.

Actually, right now, I more or less avoid fiction that might involve torture unless it’s for the blog because I don’t want to become over whelmed.

So I went back and forth on how to answer this. I wrote out and discarded several answers.

For this one- I’m going to write some scenes myself. Your mileage may vary on how well you think I write. They’re all taken from larger original works and I’ll provide some context for them.

Hopefully you all think they’re a decent read.

The context for the first scene is that Erife ‘Needle’ Hennoi is a young man from a military family in a country that’s under military rule. He’s mixed race, his surname is from the dominant cultural and ethnic group (Sardhan) and the nickname ‘Needle’ is part of his minority heritage (‘Southern’). At the time this scene takes place he’s the last member of his family that’s still actively supporting/part of the military. One of his older sisters is in exile with a family friend. The other (Teeka) led her unit in a mutiny and is thought to be hiding with the ‘anarchists’ mentioned in the scene. This is a fantasy story and there is a little bit of magic towards the end of this scene.

Erife paused at the doorway, listening closely. There were no screams this time, no moans he could make out through the thick wood. A treacherous part of his mind told him he was wrong, he was making assumptions. The military he knew would never-

Except they had. Countless times before. Almost every state but the Capital stood in testament to that.

He opened the door.

The smell hit him like a hurled brick and left him blinking as if his eyes needed to adjust. A heavy rancid soup of waste and human fluids.

On the floor there was a bundle, like a pile of rags bound up into a roughly human shape. He couldn't see it's face around Lieutenant Kedrai's legs but there was a spill of straight Sardhan hair, an inch of terracotta skin-

And a funnel, the narrow end would be wedged in their mouth, the water forced down their throat would be distending their stomach and-

“Ah, Hennoi.” Lieutenant Kedrai turned towards the door and smiled. “Would you pass me that bucket?”

He thought of Teeka and the way she could lie with a natural smile.

“I would-” Erife said carefully. “But I doubt I’ll have time to change before reporting to the Major, and she’ll have my hide if I go up smelling like the docks.”

Kedrai gave a little patronising laugh. He let the funnel drop. Without turning he kicked out, Erife heard it hit, somewhere soft and then Kedrai stepped a little further back.

It was a woman.

She was older then him, but not by much, she couldn't have been much younger then Teeka. Her abdomen was stretched out like a blister, swollen until it looked as if the skin would burst. She struggled, sat halfway up and drew her shoulders up in a single deep breath.

Kedrai kicked her stomach.

Erife froze, his face set like stone.

The water spilled out of her mouth, her nose, like a basin overflowing. Kedrai kicked her again and the smell of fresh bile and filth grew stronger still. Gods' mercy it was spilling out of her-

Erife's hands were clenching up so he put them safely out of sight behind his back. He wanted to look away, he wanted to run, he wanted-

He wanted to be anywhere else, anywhere at all. But it wouldn't do to show his feelings to-

It was interesting how instinctively that thought ended, how naturally. 'The enemy', of course.

Kedrai was shouting- something. And Needle knew he should pay attention but it was difficult when the smell was making his head swim.

Kedrai took a handful of the woman's hair and pulled her up by it.

"-those filthy anarachists! What are you hiding for them?! Where are they?"

There was still bile leaking out her mouth, trailing down her chin. Her breath was coming in splutters and bubbles.

"You think this is the worst we can do?" Kedrai bellowed. "This is a kindness compared to what I'll do tomorrow! Talk blast you!"

Her lips moved and the sound that came out was small, choked. Kedrai leaned closer.

She bit him.

Kedrai screamed. He fell backwards into the filth. The woman’s head hit the floor with a thump and she laughed, breathlessly.

Kedrai swore, scrambled to his feet. He kicked out and over the steady beat of the blows Needle heard her swearing. ‘Gate take you’ and ‘the Warrior burn you’ and ‘the Child eat your bones’.

Eventually she stopped.

“Blast it.” Kedrai swore.

“Unconscious?” Needle asked, somehow he kept his voice reasonable, as if he was enquiring about the most convenient train.

“I’ll get the wretched traitor awake again.” Kedrai stated. “I’ll get her talking.”

Liar, Needle thought.

“I’m sure.” He said, in something like the tone Teeka would have used. “But I’m afraid I’m just getting in your way-”

“Yes, Hennoi you are.” Kedrai retorted. “Though I suppose it’s good for you to see how the real work gets done.”

“It has certainly been educational.” Needle replied. “I’ll get out of your way. Shall I let the Major know you’ll have something shortly?”

“I’ll tell her myself.” Kedrai snapped.

Needle walked out at a steady pace with his head held high. He shut the door firmly behind him. The air outside tasted sweet.

His heart felt as if it was about to burst. He couldn’t think. That awful laugh- The smell-

He needed to go up to Roika, he needed to give his report and-

When Needle started walking he found himself going the other way. Deeper into the prison, the cells. Had they dug more room out of the earth since Ilāra left? Or had it always been this big and the emptiness had made it seem smaller? So many of the doors were locked and bolted now. If there was a room for every step and two or three people for every room then how many-

“Um, Sir?”

He hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped, but of course he’d come here. Of course he’d come to her.

The girl at the door was a Private and barely old enough for the stripe at her shoulder. Teeka would have known her name. Teeka would have glanced at her and known the best way to persuade her. That was Teeka’s talent and Needle-

Needle should have learnt.

“Open the door.”

“Sir?”

“I gave you an order Private. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But she’s dang-”

“Your concern is appreciated and I can handle an Avinas now open the blasted door or I shall feed you to the Gateway myself.”

“Sir!”

She fumbled over the keys and the bolts. Eventually she got it open. Needle stepped inside and she slammed the door shut after him as if it was holding back the Gateway itself.

The room was like an adharkist’s chamber, the white of fleeting power. All the better to highlight the black sigils carved into the stone.

Vee sat in the centre looking up at the ceiling. She turned sharply when Needle stepped into the sigils, like a hungry hound smelling meat.

“Oh- hello. You feel strange, like chewing lemon rinds-”

Needle sat down at the edge of the circle, just inside. Vee twisted round on to her hands and knees and crawled closer.

“That’s different-” She continued and Needle supposed she was talking to him. “I’ve not- I’ve not felt like that before. It’s so beautiful, all your hurt twisted up like knots round the things you need to live. It’s like- oh what’s it like? What’s the word? Those pretty little lumps you get inside. The rot. The cankers. Do you know what I mean?”

She crawled up until she was close enough to kiss, as close as Kedrai had gotten to that woman and she breathed out, shallow and excited. Anticipation made her shake.

“Can I have it? Please. It’s beautiful and I want it so so much- Let me take it. It won’t hurt- I think- I know- Probably- Oh please-”

“Yes.” Needle whispered. “You can have it.”

She made a high squeaking sound, like an excited child and she didn’t touch him but-

All at once he felt empty, hollowed out. Neither sad nor angry but a void left by whatever huge, clawing thing had taken up the space in his chest.

Vee sat back on her heels and hummed. “Oh that’s- It’s strange isn’t it? New. Like someone’s wrapped sharp wire round your brain. I don’t know if I like it but it feels like I have to keep holding it? Like having bones- Is it like that for you? Did you want it back?”

“No.” Needle breathed and Vee smiled as if she’d been promised a present.

“Oh- I should- Mother says we should say thank you when we get something. And I didn’t did I? Thank you. No one’s ever given me anything like that before. But I don’t think I’ll keep it forever you know- Now I’ve got it it isn’t new. So I’ll probably want something else soon- Is it like that for you?”

“No.” Needle murmured.

There was a hole inside him but the emptiness had left him feeling calmer, focused. Clarity, or an illusion of it.

Without really thinking he reached out and touched her shoulder. He’d half-expected her to feel different but it was just warm, soft skin.

“What’s it like?” Vee asked leaning into his hand. “How do you make all these beautiful things? Is it hard? Can you show me?”

“I don’t know.” Needle told her softly and Vee pouted like a child.

“But that’s not fair. You do it all the time. How can you not know?”

“I’m not sure. But even if I knew I’m not sure if I’d be able to teach you. You’re different.”

“I know.” She replied and sighed deeply. “Everyone always says that. Even Mother-”

She shifted closer by degrees, until she was sitting curled up in his lap. She was heavier then he expected. After a moment he put a hand in her uneven hair.

“She’s not coming, is she?” Vee asked. “Only- I thought she would but- But it’s been such a long time. A long long time.”

“I don’t know.” Needle said.

“Do you think she doesn’t want me any more?”

“I-”

Needle stopped. He looked down at her, guileless and wide eyed and oh so very dangerous. Vee frowned.

“What’s that? Are you going to lie? That feels- Well it isn’t quite lying is it? It’s like the lie and the truth are all tangled together and tying up your tongue.” She giggled and tapped the tip of his nose with her finger. “Can I have both?”

“Both?”

“The lie and the truth. Usually people just give you one or the other but they both make people feel so pretty-”

“I don’t know whether your mother still wants you.” Needle said. “I can’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t.”

“Oh! Yes! Exactly like that! Both at once. Well done.” She patted his shoulder.

Needle took a deep breath. He felt empty and clear. The answer had never been complicated or obscured. It was stark and obvious as the Crone’s sacred signs. He just hadn’t wanted to accept it.

Vee twisted in his arms, mouth opening-

“No.” Needle said firmly. “You can’t have this. Not yet.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I need it.” Needle sighed. “And we need to leave.”

So- on to the second story.

The context for this next scene is a little different. Rather than immediate this scene is retrospective: Sarika is recounting an important story in her culture to Ravi. It’s very much the mythic justification for the way Sarika’s culture functions. They’re the only culture in this world that still has an aerial fleet and members reportedly never touch the ground. They use their fleet to fight fires and rescue people from natural or man-made disasters. Ravi is slightly obsessed with researching them after they saved his life as a child and Sarika is only the second member that he’s been able to talk to.

Going into this Ravi knows that Sarika’s people consider themselves cursed, that they used to be soldiers and that the culture was more-or-less founded by two women who loved each other, Inna and Sarangerel.

I hastened to the roof as soon as I was able, eager to hear the rest. I found Sarika seated and smoking steadily. Repressing my distaste at the smell I sat beside her. We sat in silence for some minutes before I begged her to continue.

She drew deeply on her pipe and blew stinking tobacco from her nose. She bid me to remind her what she had spoken of last.

“Inna and Sarangerel,” I replied. “The King’s men had pulled Sarangerel from the wreck. They’d taken her to the dungeons.”

“Ah.” Sarika stood and moved to the edge of the roof. She sat on the raised edge, her legs dangling down and stared out over the university.

At the time I did not understand her hesitancy, in part because I did not yet understand her story. As different peoples we set our stories to different beats. I expected a tale of love and daring rescue.

Sarika sucked on her pipe and the smoke leaking from her nose wreathed her head and hair making her look like a djinni from the old tales, a creature of smoke and air.

“They tie her hands like this.” She made a quick motion with the hand that did not hold her pipe. I took it to indicate that Sarangerel’s hands were tied behind her back but Sarika did not pause to let me ask or reflect.

“They kick her. They say she is traitor. They say the King rules the fleet. They say she will tell them where the fleet is. And like the swan she makes no sound.”

“They take boots, they hit feet. Like this. And like the swan she makes no sound.”

“They are angry, the men. They want screams and shame. Sarangerel does not give them this. So they take cloth and tie over- Like this, yes?”

“Her head.” I said softly. “They tied it over her head.”

“Yes. Tie tight like this. You see?”

I murmured that I did.

“She moves and then she does not.” Sarika continued. “And the men they want take off cloth but it is tight. There is time. They take and she is blue. They think she is dead and they are afraid-”

“Of Inna?” I interrupted.

“Of Inna.” Sarika confirmed. “They kill her love she would make the rain burn. So they think they will hide this body, make her not Sarangerel. They take burning water* and put on her head like this.”

She gestured to the lower half of her face, the nose, cheeks, mouth and neck.

“When she is burnt they leave. They send woman to clean and she sees Sarangerel lives.”

Here Sarika paused and drew deep on her pipe. I waited, unsure if this signalled worse to come. The tale was not at all what I expected and I am not ashamed to say it disturbed me.

“She is good.” Sarika said after a moment. “She is of the King’s city but she is good. She sees Sarangerel and she feels pain. Like walking on the ground.”

Sarika sighed.

“We do not remember her name. But she takes Sarangerel from this place. She cares like Sarangerel is child. Feeds, cleans, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“There is time and Inna hears nothing. She thinks the King has killed her love. She brings the fleet over King’s lands. Like the pilgrim-bird that kills to court. Many towns, many people, they take like this.” She made a flattening motion with her hands, as if lives and cities were cast aside like waste.

“For the King’s city she comes, flak and fire and thunder- And then the woman, she has Sarangerel, she sends words to the fleet. Says to Inna ‘She is safe’-”

Sarika trailed off and I had to prompt her to continue the tale.

“They come from the air for her. You have seen it yes? We drop from the air, we take them up. You have seen it. Like this they take Sarangerel, they take the woman.”

Sarika drew on her pipe and the smoke streamed from her nose. “And Inna burns the city.”

“The whole city?”

“Yes. She makes the air rot, the rain burns. Below the people die.”

“All of them?”

“All. There is only the woman who took Sarangerel. She sees burn below, mother, children, loves, home, all burns.”

Sarika smiled mirthlessly and with a flick emptied her pipe over the side of the roof. I watched the burning ashes fall and tried to imagine them in such a quantity that they mimicked the rain.

“She says ‘You Tama, you are monsters.’ And then she curses ‘You will not rest. You banish from the ground. You rest when you save more lives then you take.’” Sarika shrugged. “So we are cursed. That is all.”

I felt quite sure that it was not. “What happened to her?”

Sarika shrugged again. “Do not know.”

“Did Inna kill her?”

“Perhaps.”

“And Sarangerel?”

“She wakes. She lives. In time she stop Inna’s fires. She leads us and we save lives.”

“And her face?”

Sarika gestured to the lower half of her face and told me that for Sarangerel it was gone**.

“What about the King?”

Sarika shrugged as if he was an irrelevance. “He burns.”

I put it to her that every other version of this story I had heard was quite different. That when outsiders told her story there was no Sarangerel and it was the King who cursed her people.

Sarika laughed so hard I feared she would fall from the roof.

*I was unable to confirm whether the liquid Sarika referred to was corrosive or flammable. Sarika gave me both her translation and the Taman word but what precisely it indicates I can not tell. Her Hindi was far from fluent, her Urdu simplistic and her Arabic best described as inventive. I suspect her people value linguistics in quantity rather than quality.

**Some time later I was fortunate enough to see Taman paintings of Sarangerel. The custom is to paint this damaged portion as a flat red shape without nose or mouth.

Both of these scenes are trying to accomplish several things simultaneously. They are (I hope) working on multiple levels.

Sarika is narrating a story that is chiefly a scene of torture and genocide. But this is also highlighting the difference between how her people see themselves and their priorities versus how outsiders see them. It’s expanding on Ravi’s preconceptions and the cultural differences between them.

In the broader context of the main story it’s the reason Sarika’s people give for their existence. Their culture grew up around a response to torture. They wouldn’t exist as they are if the friends, colleagues and lover of this survivor (as well as the survivor herself) didn’t respond to suffering in the way that they did.

This is probably the furthest I’ve taken the insistence that torture have long lasting consequences: it hasn’t just shaped the people who were there and their children but a whole culture. Its echo lasts for generations.

Inna takes the somewhat traditional role of a partner pursuing vengeance on behalf of someone else. It’s not asked for (which is also a common trope). And in this case it backfires spectacularly. Inna’s assumption that she has the ‘right’ to create more victims is the cultural cause of this ‘curse’. She is ultimately to blame for the way her people suffer and Sarangerel (by finding a way to address the situation they are left in afterwards) is the person who remakes them and allows them to survive.

Sarangerel adapts her entire society to a ‘new normal’, in a way they’re all going through a survivor recovery arc. Led by a survivor.

The insistence that it’s a nameless, charitable ‘good’ woman, responsible for the curse (rather than a bloodthirsty king) should- I hope- shift more of the power and focus on to survivors rather then torturers.

The torturers and the King all die, but for the people who come afterwards this is almost an after thought to the story. It’s less important than a cleaning lady who saw her home go up in flames.

The scene with Erife isn’t quite so world-changing. But it’s an essential part of the character’s arc and growth through the story. It’s a catalyst.

Up to this point in the story Erife has never really acted on his own account. He’s obeyed orders, even when he’s uncomfortable with them. He’s stopped doing things that help and nourish him in the name of assimilating with the mainstream culture. He’s abandoned or betrayed the family he loves in order to stay on the right side of a government he doesn’t even believe in.

He’s spent years persuading himself that this half-life he’s settled for isn’t so bad. And this is where that ends. He can’t pretend his situation is acceptable any more. He leaves and he takes Vee with him.

Unlike the previous story in this case the victim herself isn’t the focus of the story. The audience aren’t going to learn her name and she isn’t going to show up again. But nonetheless she’s had a lasting effect. Moving forward Erife will think about her quite a bit.

She says and does less then Kedrai but (I hope) she’s the focus of the scene.

The later parts of the scene with Vee should be suggesting solitary confinement. I hope they’re also suggesting that Vee doesn’t think, process things or behave like a human being. Though if that isn’t clear from this snippet there’s a lot of narrative moments before this that should make that clear to the reader.

Vee’s response within the context of both the scene and the larger story should be viewed as the aberration. Because the way she’s wired means her instinctive description of terminal bone cancer is ‘pretty’.

And broadly the scene is also serving to draw Erife and Vee closer together. It’s changed the plot, the characters and their relationship to each other.

Both of these scenes might be longer then you expected. In the sense that I haven’t just included the descriptions of torture. I’ve provided some build up, the moments before, and a significant period immediately afterwards.

Because the scene isn’t the be all and end of whether torture is portrayed well or not. We’re talking about a complex nuanced set of situations and the larger context of a story can mean a lot more then a single scene.

As an example of how complicated this can be take a look at this previous ask about the use of the term ‘broken’ in fictional torture.

It’s a term that’s often used to prop up torture apologia, supporting the idea that survivors are utterly shattered by torture and can not possibly move on with their lives (not true).

But at the same time survivors and torturers and witnesses all use this term. And using that language in the context of a survivor feeling overwhelmed and frustrated and unsupported, like their life is spinning out of control because of this one awful event? That’s realistic. Not necessarily positive, but realistic and plausible. A lot of survivors would probably see themselves in a scene like that.

Using that language to capture part of a survivors recovery process and showing them healing to a point where they can reject that language as something that was dragging them down- Takes that same scenario to the next level and it might empower the survivors reading the story.

I don’t believe there are simple answers when we’re choosing to write about complex topics.

And I understand that that’s frustrating, not always having a clear answer. Part of that philosophy comes from how outright harmful I’ve found a lot of writing advice in the past. I don’t want to dictate how people should approach writing. I don’t think that’s helpful.

For me torture done well isn’t a scene, it’s a plot line.

In these two examples I’m using it to trigger radical change in the characters. For Sarika it’s the explanation of how her people went from being soldiers to rescuers; it’s part of the definition of her culture. For Erife it’s the moment he realises things are worse then he thought. It’s the start of him thinking for himself and listening to his conscience.

I couldn’t take either incident out of these plots and end up with the same story or characters at the end. Even though the torture itself is at a significant remove from the major characters. Erife is a witness. Sarika isn’t even that.

Which reflects a trend I’ve noticed in my writing- most of the time I don’t show the torture scene if a major character is tortured. Instead I concentrate on the aftermath, the symptoms and the recovery process. That’s just how I personally tackle it. There’s nothing wrong with an author choosing to include a graphic scene for a major character.

But however it’s tackled, whether we fade to black or not, whether we put major characters or minor ones through it, there must be consequences. Huge, character changing, world-warping consequences.

That doesn’t mean the simplistic cop outs like the survivor who is completely removed from the plot by virtue of their survival.

Think bigger and beyond the insulting stereotypes. Think of resistance movements and cultures of remembrance. Palmares. Capoeira. The Circassian refusal to eat fish from the Black Sea.

If torture can be removed from a narrative easily, then it almost certainly wasn’t a good narrative use of torture.

And there is so much potential in these plots. At their best they explore something fundamental to our humanity: our ability to find meaning and happiness in life regardless of the suffering inflicted on us and our ability to help each other even while we’re suffering.

I think I’m going to have to leave that there. If you’d like some recommendations for stories that I think handle torture well I’m happy to give you some titles. But most of the stories I love for the way they used torture don’t have any graphic scenes. Some of them don’t discuss torture explicitly at all.

But you asked for scenes and this was the best I could come up with.

I hope it helps. :)

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#Anonymous #tw torture #writing victims #writing witnesses #writing torture scenes #resistance #effects of torture #torture plot lines #my writing #I'm a little bit nervous about showing it to you all to be honest

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