Deiselad
Magistrate
Phil and I have been mates for years. My God did we really first meet at University 17 years ago. We got on from the moment we found ourselves in the same class. He was then as he is now a Dorian Grey like beauty. Tall, thin, extremely good looking with a strong figure and wavy long fair hair. I am the opposite. Irish. Strong willed, stubborn. Tall alright but well, typically Celtic looking. A Celtic temper too I guess! Over the years our friendship got stronger and stronger. Blossomed into what became what another Irish Wilde man called ' the love that dare not speak its name ', when being questioned by Carson at his libel trial. Now for some time we have been secret lovers. In a Catholic country, recovering from a terrible recession, Irish people have returned to God and his commandments. Homosexuality is one crime which carries corporal punishment. Men and women alike have suffered at the hands of sadistic guards who keep a keen eye for transgressors of the now ten year old homophobic legalisation. Phil and I have always been careful. Our love is known to only two other people, our trusted friends.
Last night Phil's elderly Mum passed on to her eternal reward. We're sitting by the boardwalk on The Grand Canal, I'm lost in my lovers grief and throw my arm around his shoulder to comfort him. He looks up into my eyes and tears overcome him. I pull him closer to me and kiss him lightly on his forehead. ' C'mon to fuck Phil, lets get outa here and head back to your Mum's house, you have her funeral tomorrow. I pull him up oblivious to the two people, a man and woman dressed in the uniform of the State Police. As we stroll back along the canal the woman takes out her phone and talks urgently to call for support. Little do we know as we approach the gates that our lives and the lives of many in this state are about to change utterly.
In a non-descript rectangle building half a mile away, in a small sanitised cell an iron bar is screwed into the ceiling. Three sets of stainless steel shackles hang from the bar. In the corner of the room in a special stand sit some instruments of torture. Some old fashioned like the whips and chains, others more contemporary. Outside as the car approaches and enters the gated complex, Phil and I catch sight of people going about their business. Nobody looks up as we pass through the gates and they close silently behind us. I feel fear like I've never known before.
Tbc
Last night Phil's elderly Mum passed on to her eternal reward. We're sitting by the boardwalk on The Grand Canal, I'm lost in my lovers grief and throw my arm around his shoulder to comfort him. He looks up into my eyes and tears overcome him. I pull him closer to me and kiss him lightly on his forehead. ' C'mon to fuck Phil, lets get outa here and head back to your Mum's house, you have her funeral tomorrow. I pull him up oblivious to the two people, a man and woman dressed in the uniform of the State Police. As we stroll back along the canal the woman takes out her phone and talks urgently to call for support. Little do we know as we approach the gates that our lives and the lives of many in this state are about to change utterly.
In a non-descript rectangle building half a mile away, in a small sanitised cell an iron bar is screwed into the ceiling. Three sets of stainless steel shackles hang from the bar. In the corner of the room in a special stand sit some instruments of torture. Some old fashioned like the whips and chains, others more contemporary. Outside as the car approaches and enters the gated complex, Phil and I catch sight of people going about their business. Nobody looks up as we pass through the gates and they close silently behind us. I feel fear like I've never known before.
Tbc
