WARNING

This is adult content, and not the kind you're used to!

This short story aims to create a fictional story that provokes shock and critical thinking about sensitive adult themes. Under no circumstances does the author support or accept any kind of mistreatment, aggression or torture of another human being, whether physical or psychological. Any resemblance of actual people or events are merely coincidental.

That said - Here's the latest chapters

The Boiler Room Ordeal - Prologue: The Last Reflex of Broken Dreams

The Boiler Room Ordeal I - Sacrificial Lamb

The Boiler Room Ordeal II – Struggling on Quicksand

The Boiler Room Ordeal III - Bare Ideologies

The Boiler Room Ordeal IV - Feminist Struggle

The Boiler Room Ordeal V - Holy Hypocrisy

The Boiler Room Ordeal VI - Fealty and Treason

AIDE MUSIC

Requiem pour un fou" by Johnny Hallyday

 

Amélie's eyes opened wide as she took in a huge gulp of air when she felt cold water splashing violently on her body. How long had she been unconscious? She could no longer keep track of time. Her whole body burned with pain, and she shivered with cold despite the oppressive heat of the room that drenched its occupants in sweat.

Dominique stepped back, signaling Lyonel to remove the electrodes. Had they resumed their torture? Apparently so. She had just been electrocuted, but she didn't remember it. Lyonel removed the electrodes from her breasts, giving her a wicked smile.

— Don't worry, you already look dead — he commented.

— Mademoiselle Boucher, this is no time to be dozing. I recommend you take your situation seriously, or it could be the end of you — Dominique interrupted. — Let's restate the question, shall we? Please, Agent Blanchet, repeat the question.

Did they ask her anything? She struggled to remember but couldn't. She was having memory lapses and knew she was nearing her end. Then she did something that stunned her torturers. With a grunt of pain, she straightened up in the metal chair. She was willing to tell all the truths kept in her heart, without tricks or strategies, and she was willing to face all kinds of punishment, even if it killed her. This was madness—she knew it. But it would be her last confession, her dirge, her requiem—the requiem for a madwoman.

She jerked back, causing Lyonel to take two steps backward, as if he were facing a worthy rival and not a tied-up, half-dead woman. Étienne stood speechless, files in hand, no reaction—just dumbfounded. Even Dominique held his breath for a moment.

— I see you still have the fighting spirit. Good. Monsieur Blanchett, carry on — Dominique said.

The woman sitting in the chair had just briefly passed out and stopped breathing,  needing medical attention. Étienne was waiting for her to collapse back into the chair to demand that it all stop, but she remained stubbornly upright. Was this stubbornness fueled by the devil, or a sign of God's will? Only time would tell. Étienne made the sign of the cross, repeated his question while nervously cleaning his glasses, and approached.

— Mademoiselle Boucher, what are your views on Muslim immigrants? Do you believe they should be allowed in France?

Amélie heard the question. All her strength was being used to hold her head high. She tried to focus, managing to mutter an answer.

— People... deserve... a chance — she whispered. — No matter where they come from.

Lyonel was offended that he had been cowed by the dying woman's display of defiance.  ‘Who does this daddy's little girl think she is? Does she think she's superior to us just because she lives in a mansion? She's nothing but a tramp!’ Lyonel thought as he came dangerously close and laughed at her response.

— Do you think women like you should serve men like us? — He asked as he reached for Amélie's right breast, fondling it and twisting her nipple with his thumb. She pulled away, causing him to chuckle triumphantly. — Would you be a good girl and please us if we ordered you to? — He finished his question while licking his thumb teasingly.

Amélie was angry with herself for having withdrawn her body, which made her fall back into the cruel chair and find herself without the strength to get up again. She struggled to remember that despicable being's sick question and shivered with rage as she recalled it.

— Never — she spat weakly. — You’re monsters. — She paused, her chin resting on her collarbone. — For... a m-man... to be worthy of a woman's... pleasure... he m-must first please her... a-and respect her... as an equal. T-this... is reciprocity... a-an... alien concept to you... since you are neither... worthy nor men.

Lyonel slapped her left flank with the leather strip, making her gasp in pain.

Dominique stood between the two of them, preventing Lyonel from punishing her more than necessary. He was beginning to respect her, beginning to see in her a sister in arms, but her last answer reminded him that she was just a woman—a woman who somehow hadn't broken yet. But only a woman, and she would break. She MUST break.

— Do you hate us, Boucher? — Dominique asked the question with more emotion than he would have liked to show, causing him to feel irritated at how much that little girl was affecting him. — I mean, do you hate the agency? For what it's doing to you?

Amélie's mind was in a fog of pain and exhaustion, but she still giggled when she felt the frustration in her tormentor's voice. The laughter cost her, as it made her lungs hurt, and she almost forgot the question.

— Hating... you is s-sweet... b-but... it leads nowhere... I-I hate... what you stand for... — She managed to speak but pulled her face back as she imagined she would be hit. The blow not coming, she continued: — ...I-I... I don't hate the agency... b-because it was... c-created to defend the country... the country I love... I o-only... only hate those who... who set it up for their own ends... It's not the agency that's torturing me... it's you.

Dominique's impulse was to punch her in the face, but he wouldn't give her the pleasure of seeing him lose his composure again. He simply walked away, making way for Lyonel, who didn't think twice about flogging her again, this time at her stomach so hard that he slipped and almost fell over. Amélie was still moaning in pain from the laceration and didn't even notice his blunder, so he pulled himself together and laughed.

— What spirit, bitch! But I'm going to break you! Women are weak! Do you agree with that, huh? You think women are weak? Are you a fucking pussy-sucker feminist? — he shouted, clearly hysterical.

Amélie’s head lolled to the side, barely able to hold on. — Weakness… manifests itself in cruelty… a-and intolerance... — she whispered. — You... are the weak ones.

Lyonel threw another lash at her, this time on her left shoulder, the crack ending in her back. He was preparing another, the leather strap aloft, ready to hit her on the head or shoulders, his eyes lost in fury. Étienne noticed that Dominique was not inclined to intervene, so he leapt forward, taking the lash that should have landed on the woman's face on his outstretched arm.

— A-ARE YOU M-MAD, A-AGENT M-MOREAU? — Étienne shouted as the strap hit the sleeve of his suit, causing Lyonel to come to his senses and step back, startled by the fact that he was so lost in anger that he had hit his own companion.

Étienne turned to Boucher. The girl seemed to be fighting with all her might to stay conscious, her body bent over in pain from the blow to her shoulder. Where was that strength coming from? He had to have his answer. Étienne, his voice almost pleading, asked another question.

— M-Mademoiselle B-Boucher, p-please! Only you can e-end this madness! T-tell us, d-do you think France should remain a Catholic nation, Boucher? Do you believe in religious purity? D-does your strength c-come from your faith?

Amélie’s vision blurred, but she forced herself to answer. — Faith... should be... personal — she said. — Not... enforced. — Étienne’s heart sank with the answer, and he was about to step away when she continued. — F-faith… comes from w-within… within people, not… from institutions.

Étienne looked with genuine indignation at the woman who refused salvation. In an audible sigh, he quoted the Bible: — If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet.

— I agree with you, dear Blanchett. The girl is no longer taking us seriously — Dominique said with menace in his voice. — Let's remind her how serious the situation she is in and that she must respect us if she wants to get out of here alive. — Dominique nodded to Lyonel, who was lost in thought. — Agent Moreau, bring out the waterboarding equipment.

Amélie gritted her teeth, preparing for the worst. — I-if it’s m-my s-sub... submission to you or death, I... I choose death. Equality or nothing.

Lyonel brought more buckets filled with water, tiredness and resigned anger etched on his swollen face.

— Time for another test — Dominique said. — Let's see how you handle this.

They turned the chair down, laying her on her back, covering her face with the cloth. Lyonel poured the water, the sensation of drowning overwhelming her. Amélie struggled, her body thrashing as she fought for breath. They removed the rag briefly, hurling threats as she struggled for dear life, then proceeded with another waterboarding. Water pooled on the floor as she thrashed aimlessly, her foot straps sliding from the chair legs, but she could only flail her free limbs weakly.

They removed the cloth again and started to argue among themselves. None of them noticed that this time, her wet hair clung to her face, acting as an unintended gag.

Her vision began to fade as the water continued to pour down her hair. She tried to cry out, to plead, but the water and her hair stifled her voice. They didn’t seem to notice, still alternating between arguing and asking questions. The world around her began to blur, darkness closing in as she felt her consciousness slipping away.

The last thing she realized was Dominique leaning close to her lying body and finally understanding what was happening—that she was dying. He gave her a devilish grin as he calmly leaned back, ordering the others to prepare something she couldn't comprehend.

Amélie’s world went black, her body finally succumbing to the relentless torment.