I awake.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Alphonse has managed to crawl his way through the tunnels to see me again, and felt obligated to inform me that he had arrived.

Sitting up, I ignore my friend for a moment, as I usually do, and stare with calm unfeeling eyes at the walls that have been my home for what seems like forever. And, as with every morning, the people around me might as well have not even existed. For while I am thinking, nothing else matters.

Those grey, grey, walls. The other people in my room might as well not even be there. Unfeeling, uncaring, they radiate cold back at me. In their life, they have seen many occupants of the room they create, so I am nothing special to them. Just another occupant, nothing more.

The room is sparse. The cot that I sit on is the only furniture I have to my name, and the bucket in the corner the only utility. Four cement walls and a little door. The grey, cold, ceiling and floor radiate with memories past, memories of fear, death and hunger.

The prayer for death is abundant in this place.

Looking away from the walls, I turn to myself, one of the many who inhabits these dismal walls. I find myself sitting upon a bed, my legs swung over the side and my toes brushing against the ground. The ground, a cold grey cement base with as much feeling as the walls, reminds me that I cant remember the touch of earth between my toes.

I do not know how long I have been here, or even the reasons why I ended up in this place. The bitter cold and the malnourishment of both my physical and spiritual form has apparently taken what little memory remained of any form of life I once may have had.

Then, through my tattered clothes, I glimpse a view of my pale body.

Most would not think it would be possible to feel surprise at the look of ones self every day. But on this morning, like every other morning, I still have a twinge of slight surprise that I am still alive after what must be an eternety in this place.

Tears spring to my eyes as I wonder in awe just how this corpse of a man survives each new day.

The sickly pale white skin that can only be seen stretched thinly over my hands and through a few tears in my uniform, has no answer for my question of survival. Rolling back the sleeves of my shirt, it is evident that there is little other than skin pulled over bones on this body of mine. For a moment, Im on the verge of tears again, as I pull memories of a time where I was healthy and happy, and a young man full of life.

Quickly, I struggle to banish those memories along with the anguish they brought with them. It works, and I am able to contain myself, at least for now. However, sadly, tomorrow, in my heart I know I will remember the same things again, as I have every morning before.

I wipe the tears away. Weakness is death.

I forget all about Alphonse, who has strolled over to sit on the edge of my bed, and waits patiently while I gather my thoughts.

They call us animals. Every one of us has to work like dogs for them, and get beaten and yelled at when we do not meet our daily tasks. Nobody here seems to think that one bowl of sludge a day to eat does little for the body in terms of energy and nutrition.

There are others like myself, existing in this hell, but we are separated and cannot speak. Not separated with walls nor with wire, but with humanity. We no longer know how to communicate with each other, and I doubt it would matter little if we did. We are all lost to ourselves.

Thirty people incased in a large concrete cell, yet, we might as well be all alone.

I am not entirely alone, however. My only companion, Alphonse, visits me every day. Risking getting caught by a guard, he moves in shadows and tunnels all throughout this complex where they keep us. In return for his devotion, I give him some of the chunks out of my sludge that I save. At least one of us is getting fed around here.

Alphonse and I talk of many things, things past known. Usually, even when talking with friends, most people I used to know would be hesitant on certain subjects, things they would consider 'silly'. Spending ever day removed from 'humanity' removed those hesitations long ago, and Alphonse hears of everything from ones I used to love, to cars, to food I wish we had.

I look at Alphonse fondly, sitting there on my bed, as I hand him what little food I could save from yesterdays(?) meal. He accepts it with a word of thanks, then happily devours what may be his 10th meal of the day so far, depending on who else he has visited.

Every day, I wake, I go work, I get back and I sleep. Usually, before I go off to work in the morning or when I get back, there will be a bowl of sludge waiting for me. Some awful broth with little chunks of meat(?) thrown in. And I say usually because there have been times where either they're punishing me for something, or, they've just plain forgotten. Life is like that.

Something suddenly occurs to me. In all this starvation and death, probably the only one getting fat is Alphonse. I jab him in the ribs and he lets out a yelp of protest, which makes me break into laughter. In this place, laughter has not been heard in many years, and it scares both prisoner and guard alike.

The footsteps of our supervisor can be heard nearing the cell outside. Alphonse vanishes, not wishing to be seen in a place he shouldn't be. Kicking open the door and marching in alongside the cold biting wind, the cruel twisted face of a man informs me it is time for work. The nods in understanding he receives seems to satisfy him, as I gather myself up to suffer yet one more day of a tortured existence.

Time passes. I don't know how much. Just work. Work. Work.

-----------------------------------------------

I awake.

Rather, I get back. My bones ache, but I cant remember why. In fact, I remember nothing.

Every aspect of my life, every intelligent thought, every memory of everything is gone. All my senses replaced by the bitter cold that seeped into my bones and the biting pain of over-exhaustion and malnourishment that claws at ones soul.

No sentient thoughts, no mind of my own. I might as well be an ‘animal', for there is certainly little difference between myself and a beast of burden.

Even my bleak room, which I've spent so long in, looks unfamiliar to me. Recognition is non-existent in my cold emotionless eyes, eyes much like the walls around them. Every day, it seems I am brainwashed further, because after every day I return so ‘lost' from myself I sometimes do not even remember my own name until the following morning.

Not that it matters, for then, when I remember, I would go out and work, and forget again.

I know I am hungry. Why am I not being fed?

Staring around my room in confusion and lost identity, I catch sight of an extremely fat rat crawl in through a hole in the corner of the room. The rat, fat as I've ever seen one, hops up on my bed and squeaks at me.

For a moment, but just for a moment, I feel something familiar. But then my exhaustion returns, and banishes the spark of humanity that tried to exist.

Grabbing the rat with both hands, I smile and take a bite into the warm flesh.

I am content.



Dedicated to the former U.S.S.R's political prisoners.

-- Cassius Darkpaw (spiderfire@hotmail.com), October 18, 2002