Operation: Screams in Space, Day 1

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

They. Who are they? Scientists, who guess at best? I mean, really... has anyone ever tested this theory?

Probably not. But I'm about to.

You see, I am the second richest person on the planet, but you've probably never heard of me because I pay my taxes, and I pay my employees quite handsomely to not know me.

I go by X. Unoriginal, I know, but it suits its purpose.

For my theory, which I've titled Operation: Screams in Space, I have hired a test dummy, though the individual doesn't know for what they are being used. They only know they've been released from a prison that, even serving in solitary confinement, is treating them better than they deserve. You see, if you pay a jail warden enough, they will release the worst of the worst, and turn a blind eye.

Records will be maintained, naturally, even falsified, for the sake of continuity and believability, but the individual will no longer be a warden of the county, state, or nation. They will be in my sole custody.

The individual under my care is, what's a gentle way to say piece of trash? I shall spare the details, both to save those reading who may find the revelations triggering, but also to save the reopening of the victims' wounds.

The victims.

The parents have been bluntly informed of my mission, and paid, again quite handsomely, for their silence. The money won't pay for the hurt inflicted, the lives changed forever, no. But it can help in the smallest manner I'm convinced.

If you find yourself squeamish, you may want to skip ahead to my end thesis, for my plan involves ingenious medieval torture methods. And the documentations thereof. All in the name of science I assure you.

My test subject will be placed into a spacesuit, then hooked up to a device, coincidentally in the shape of an X. Their arms will be bound to each end of the top of the X; their legs and feet at the bottom ends. They will be launched into space from a private launch pad--no Cape Canaveral here, though my team is every bit as NASA-approved.

Once launched into space, the spacecraft will follow a predetermined route for approximately one Earth hour. Once the orbital mark has been hit, the subject will be ejected from the nose of the descent module. Upon floating in space for a period of time, the legs of the X, which are hinged in the middle, will begin pulling apart, causing the subject's limbs to be stretched.

The stretching will be slow and torturous. Cartilage and ligaments will eventually snap. Shoulders and limbs will be separated. The subject will be in excruciating pain.

The helmet has been fitted with a sort of one-way mesh that allows for oxygen to be breathed, but sound to be emitted, even amplified if I so choose.

It is in these hours of pain being administered that I will stand on the observation deck and listen. I will incline my head toward the heavens, toward the billions of twinkling stars, and listen.

In the event of a malfunction, the X has been rigged with sharpened, iron spikes. The spikes have been set to release, pushing through the subject's body. Unfortunately though, the lack of oxygen from a punctured spacesuit would probably do the trick much more quickly; unless as by my calculations, the spikes serve as a sort of...plug (much along the lines of not moving something that has impaled you until medical attention has been sought). As a person disinclined to believe in higher beings, I find myself praying anyway that this is not the case.

Should the X fail to eject from the descent module, the spacecraft has been rigged to explode. Microphones placed inside the helmet will transmit the sounds of torture to my private receiver, upon which I can listen through headphones and record, should my malicious heart so choose.

The subject has been suited up and is currently laying in place.

Tomorrow, my mission begins.