Continuing on with the theme of isolation that I have seemed to be running with. This piece is a little darker than my others and is written to give sense of emotion and physical distress through extreme duress.

Enjoy

————————–

Emotions mean weakness. It’s a rule that is beat into every new recruit as soon as they hit the academy. But it doesn’t matter; he is still here, in this small room, feeling his emotions get the better of him. They yelled, they screamed, they tried to make him speak. He could not…his whole emotive capacity had become focused on a single, terrible, emotion…fear.

Even if he had wanted to tell them where the rest of the team was, he couldn’t. He sat, in a pool of his own urine, nodding his head and swaying back and forth like a Muslim at sunset. He breathed through his teeth and dislodged the stale spittle on the end of his tongue, but lack of moisture made it thick and he is forced to breath in quickly as it catches on his teeth and shuts his mouth’s opening; making him gag.

They do not know if they can get more out of him, they throw him bodily against the hard wall and then drag him back under the light…he is too weak to speak, too tired to breathe…too scared to help…He sits there, quivering, a bundle of rags on the floor…he is broken.

Threats will have no effect now, they know this; they leave him. He is in a room with no windows, a small bulb hanging from a cord makes the shadows keep their distance and he finds himself longing more and more for a bullet and a gun to put it in. He throws his eyes back into his skull as he lifts his grisly visage and spits into the air, the blood goes straight up and lands, in a puddle of the same, on his shirt.

He folds on the floor and can’t think his name, his thoughts are all jumbled, and his language is gone. He was a soldier, a common green male. He sits on the floor and cries though the night. When he looks up – the pain from the tears is making a thump, which throbs through his head; he cannot control the agony of fear. He lifts up his tears and stares through the darkness, the only thing left…is the terror of day.

His eyes lift further to the hot globe above him, he screams at the light and then runs against the door, beating his body into it like a haunting Taiko ensemble. The guards on the outside hear him faintly through the thick wooden door they laugh harshly at the sound and then sit down to their dinner. Inside the banging stops…

The room is dark, the light is smashed and scattered on the ground, glass coating the single wooden chair. If there were light the view would be this – a silent man swings from a cord in the ceiling, silently telling the fear that he felt.

————————–

Thank-you for reading.

CW

—

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.