Solitude

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT AND LANGUAGE

Past the point of “No Return”

Lies a place where fires burn.

Once you’re gone, you can’t come back.

Your little ride is over, Jack.

1

Drip.

Repeating sounds always made me a little anxious. Kinda wanted to make me flip furniture over. Like when someone scratches the back of your neck or throws rocks at you. Not enough to kill, but enough to make you want to maim. This one, though, right now is my only source of comfort in the darkness.

Drip drop.

I lie so still I can hear every breath I blow in and out. Every single twitch of my body. Every other minute sound… Except there are none but the drip. In here, silence and darkness is a wet blanket, clogging my mouth, covering my eyes, pressing against my ear drums…

That is, as long as I can block out the screams and the memories flashing through my mind.

Drip drop Drip.

Here they come. Uncontrollable, flashing images, memories I don’t want to see. Don’t have a choice. Trying to control it just makes it worse in this hole. Silent howls, mouthless screams, and things no one should ever see… Voices telling me to get out, Get Out, GET OUT…

This straw mat is really fucking uncomfortable.

Drip.

Some sort of cushion, anything at all really, would be nice. It actually makes the stone worse. Can’t take the shirt off my body; it’s too cold in here. Sharp pain in my back every time I adjust. What I wouldn’t give for a California King mattress right now. Or any sort of comfortable cushion, really. Shit, a lousy Army cot would be nice.

Drip drop.

Even if my 6 foot 2 inch frame can’t fit all the way on the damned thing, at least I could curl up in the fetal position. Amazing I can even think about that right now. Thought being a prisoner would make me think about philosophy or science or even just be afraid… Mostly I just want to sleep…

What I wouldn’t give for so many things right now. I’d give my left arm for a cheeseburger.

Drip drop Drip.

I’d sell my eyes for some fucking fresh air, just a whiff. Hell, I’d donate my balls to science for a back massage right about now…

Fuck, here we go again. Try to sleep, this is what I get. Here it comes again, here it comes, your fucking nervous breakdown… Just have to breathe. Just breathe. Just gotta breathe, gotta focus, gotta…

Drip.

“GET OUT!! GET OUT OF THE TRUCK!! RIGHT NOW!! MOVE IT!!”

Fires blazing. Eyes burning. Can’t see, but see too much. So much blood. Fucking Everywhere. EVERYWHERE!

“LEAVE YOUR FUCKING PACK, SAL!! MOVE!!!”

NO TIME. GOTTA MOVE. MOVE!!

Drip drop.

Truck’s on Fucking Fire.

Emergency Handle! There! Pull down and push… Not moving… Kick it! KICK!

FUCK YOU, OPEN NOW!

There!! Light!!

Poppoppoppop!!

Shit, gunfire, wasn’t just an IED! Gotta find my target… So much screaming…

Drip drop Drip.

2

Drip.

Breathe. Breathe. Not there. Just here, in this fucking cave. No fire here, just a light bulb. But it’s not on now. That only flares on twice a day. To bring me meals and check my cell. That’s all I get. Maybe 20 minutes of light a day.

Have to breathe now, breathe slowly. Have to stave off the onslaught. All by myself here, in the dark, but not alone.

Drip drop.

20 minutes of light. Every day. Can’t waste it. So much depends on that light. It won’t be on for a while now. Even with the almost absolute sensory deprivation, I know that much. About the only thing I know, though. I have no idea where I am, other than in a cave. I have no idea who is holding me. How long I have really been here. What these people want. Not a clue.

Drip drop Drip.

Other than the initial beating I took when I struggled when I first was aware I was here, I have not been tortured. Interrogated. Talked to at all. Other than bringing me food and inspecting my cell, they pretty much leave me alone. Left to my thoughts.

Left to the screaming.

Drip.

3

384 times. Lights on for a maximum of maybe 15 minutes. Usually about 10, I think. Not sure… Can’t gauge time well enough in here. Just enough time for the routine. Put me in chains, inspect my cell, then exchange food for chains.

It’s always two guards. Same two guards. Huge guys, with black hoods and dressed in blackout gear.

Drip drop.

Carrying what look like state-of-the-art automatic assault rifles. Can’t tell what type, some European make. My only companions (outside my head) in this hellish place. Same chains, same routine, same guys, every time. Come in, chain me up, clean my cell (Did I say clean? How about check to make sure the hole where I squat to shit isn’t full) and then slowly back out, weapons raised.

Drip drop Drip.

Then they throw me the key. That’s the exchange. I let myself out of the chains, put it on the sliding tray built into the bars, and slide them through. Eyes never leaving me, they set the food tray down (gotta still be in Afghanistan… Rice and kebab every day) on the slider. Then the lights go out. In a cave… somewhere. That’s all I know. 6 months, or somewhere around there.

Drip.

If my count is right. Don’t know how long I lost after the initial capture. Can’t tell. Trapped here. Trapped like an animal, a rat in a cage.

A cage. That’s all it is. 35 strides wide by 46 long, rounded like a church alcove on the wall across from the bars. Solid rock all over. No dirt. Nowhere to dig. Nowhere to run.

Drip drop.

Has to be a pretty significant water source somewhere nearby. Sometimes, when they come in, I hear water rushing. And cries for help. I’m in some sort of prison. Not likely to escape. The darkness really makes hope die fast…

Amazing, only to hear a drip. One drip. It sounds like a river sometimes when the guards come in the cell. 

Drip drop Drip.

But a river in Afghanistan? Where? Maybe it isn’t, though. Can’t be sure. Figured out a long time ago this group isn’t Taliban or Al Qaeda. Way too high tech. My cell is shitty, but the weapons and gear are too high speed. And the way they took over our convoy… Taliban don’t use tear gas. They don’t use nets to capture people. They just kill you. Same with Al Qaeda.

Drip.

Al Qaeda might torture you, but they aren’t this high speed.

Could be wrong, though. Hell, what do I know. I’m just a grunt. Just a poor bastard, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Very surprised they haven’t interrogated me yet. My Intelligence buddies said that’s the first thing they do, but this group has another idea.

Drip drop.

I would have expected a straightforward beating. Not this silent treatment. Maybe this is how they want to break me. Make me beg? Keep me alone for so long that I tell them whatever they want just to get out? I don’t know.
But I won’t beg.

I’ll die before I beg.

Drip drop Drip.

4

871 times. So many fucking times. All I can do is pace. Endless fucking pacing in this tiny little cell. This God-forsaken place. Well, one good thing: getting stronger. Only way to block out the screams. Work myself to exhaustion… then do it again. Pushups, dips, squats, endless abdominal exercises. Shadow boxing. Anything. Anything to keep my mind occupied.

Drip.

It’s the quiet that’s the worst. I could endure anything if there were more noise. More contact with something outside myself. It’s to the point where I look forward to my guards coming. Just so I have something to do, someone to look at when it all seems like endless night. But they don’t talk. I’ve tried everything. Yelling. Screaming. Reasoning. I even begged. Nothing. No response.

Drip drop.

They both just stare at me, blank sockets following orders. Stare at me like I’m a diseased mongrel. Maybe I am to them. I feel like one. I feel like I’m losing my mind…

Endless drips. That’s my only fucking company. That, and nightmares. Fucking feel like I’m going to die. Want to bash my skull into pieces…

Drip drop Drip.

Tired of waking up in sweat… Tired of the screams… Even the exercises aren’t working anymore…

Gotta make some noise now. Early on, wasn’t so bad. Could rest. Could breathe. Now, can’t even focus. Before, had to fight to get through to the next light. Now, just trying to get through the moment.

Drip.

I can’t believe I didn’t fire faster. I can’t believe I didn’t move quickly enough. I should have gotten there sooner, I should have taken them all down…

Shouldn’t have fucked with my seatbelt for so long… Shouldn’t have volunteered in the first place…

Shoulda fuckin’ woulda coulda…

Drip drop.

All the stupid, endless hours of wasting time at home, getting drunk underage, partying…

Ha. What I wouldn’t give for a drink right now. Something to dim the din I can feel coming on. Here comes the rain again. Here comes the fucking storm. Too late to stop it now…

Drip drop Drip.

5

“THUNDERSTRUUUUUUUUCK!!!!”

My buddy, Gomez, in the backseat, puts on his sunglasses. It’s bright out here in Northern Afghanistan. Bumpy road makes everything in the truck bounce.

“Hey, Sal, what’s the next song, man?”

I look at the CD case and start to answer… but I never finish.

Drip.

BOOM!!

Fuck! IED! Truck flipping over!

“ROLLOVER ROLLOVER ROLLOVER!!”

Frantic voices on the radio, all garbled. Everyone screaming, scrambling.

Sssssssss…

Drip drop.

What the fuck?! Tear gas?! Coughing, can’t see well. Everything a messy blur. Trying to get my seatbelt undone. Long time before I realize I have to cut it.

Truck upside down now.

“GET OUT!! GET OUT OF THE TRUCK!! NOW!!”

Fire. Fire all around. How the fuck did it spread so fast?!

Drip drop Drip.

Doesn’t matter, gotta move. Eyes are burning!! Where is my pack?!

“LEAVE YOUR FUCKING PACK, SOLDIER!!”

Sergeant Howe is right, can’t worry about that. Gotta move. Now.

Look over to help Gomez.

Fuck!!

Drip.

He’s fucking dead. Jesus, he’s fucking dead. Fucking eyes wide open, jaw slack, blood all over his face. Got his head smashed in. Why the Fuck wasn’t he wearing his helmet?!

Thoughts racing through my head as I climb out, gotta get out. Should have checked him, but he was dead.

Drip drop.

There, crawl. Grab the handle. Emergency exit. Pull down and push. Open! Open, damn you! Kick it, kick it! Fuck you, Open Now!!

There! Light!

Out, roll, weapon tucked to my chest.

POPPOPPOPPOP

Drip drop Drip.

Shit! Wasn’t just an IED! Complex attack! Gotta return fire!

Shit, helmet just fell. Duck down!

Scan the area… Breathe…

Fuck! Howe, on the ground! Fucking screaming… screaming his lungs out… Literally screaming for his fucking mother… Bloody, gaping hole in his chest…

Drip.

POPPOPPOPPOP

FUCK!! Right by my fucking head!!

Screams, everyone is screaming. Every truck got hit!

Can’t focus on that, gotta return fire.

Where the fuck… There. Bastards in blackout gear, assault rifles.

Drip drop.

Two of them, dragging someone away in a fucking net… Don’t have a clear shot…

There. Breath, aim, squeeze. BANG

Got him! Got that – CRUNCH

Sharp pain. Back of head. Fuck. Vision fading. Falling back. Can’t move.

Drip drop Drip.

Jesus, this fucking pain…

Oh my Christ… I can hear Howe…

Howe still screaming.

Still screaming.

Screaming.

6

Drip.

1,183 times.

Don’t know why I keep count anymore. Not like the light matters. No hope left, really. Spend most of the day in a fantasy world. Pretend this is all a bad dream.

Just trying to survive.

Drip drop.

Can’t really focus on anything but the routine now. Routine keeps me away from the screaming.

BAM

Ah, light. So much better. Used to love the dark; now, it’s my bane. That and the drip.

Drip drop Drip.

Light is beautiful, blessed and lovely.

Still, I have the routine. My only obligation left in life.

Get up. Face the wall. Hands in front. Bars creak open. Guard takes 30 strides. Stop. Jingle-jingle, here’s the chains. Shackles on the feet. Drop handcuffs. 5 steps back for my buddy. I put the handcuffs on now. Turn around.

Drip.

They never mind me turning around.

Wait.

Something new.

New guard.

Smaller. More slender. Big as I was when I first got here.

Drip drop.

New guy. Isn’t sure of the protocol.

Watch him closely.

Senses heightened.  So much time alone. Pick up everything.

New guy fumbles a little. Searches a little too long.

He knows the routine though. New, not stupid.

Drip drop Drip.

Clean the room. Look in the hole. Back out. Throw me the key. Same routine, just a little slower.

I unlock my chains and slide them through. Get my food.

New guard’s weapon is a little slack.

Relaxed. Not at the ready.

Drip.

I lock eyes with him.

He’s got little doe eyes.

I must look crazy.

He looks away first.

Scared.

7

Drip drop.

Stopped counting. Doesn’t matter anymore. Cabin fever so bad all I can focus on is the new guard. Something about him. Feel like I might be able to over power him. See him when I close my eyes. Know every step he takes, every move he makes, every little flick of the eyes and every movement of his muscles. Have to know everything I can.

Drip drop Drip.

Over and over, replay it. Best time is when he drops the shackles.

He’s still scared of me.

Every twist and turn I can think of gets me shot.

Know the other guard won’t hesitate. He’s a professional. He’ll kill his own to stop a breakout. Can see that in his eyes.

Drip.

Explode back, maybe? No, he can dive to the left or right. Can’t reach back over my head, other guard will shoot us down.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. Think.

Wish I had something to pick the lock with, or anything to use as a weapon. Nothing. Straw mat is too flimsy. They’ll see if I make my clothes into a rope.

Drip drop.

Something… Paperclip, wire, anything… Nothing but stone in here… Stone and time…

Stone and time and screams… And a little hope…

A tiny shred…

Wonder if it will be enough…

Drip drop Drip.

8

Always watching them carefully now. Have to try something. Mind getting worse. Fragmented. Can’t focus.

Desperate to escape now. Don’t care, don’t care about anything, just have to get out.

Too many nights, too much darkness, too few hours without screams…

Drip.

Rage is bad. Can’t see through the dripping. Have to focus now, have to breathe. Fury boils like an angry tidal wave…

Noise.

Light.

Stand up.

Drip drop.

Turn.

Bars.

Steps.

Shackles.

Handcuffs.

Drip drop Drip.

Put them on.

Turn around.

Guard searches.

Finds nothing.

Backs out.

Drip.

Closes gate.

Reaches in pocket for keys.

THERE!!!

Stay calm. Stay calm now. Have to stay as cool as ice. Don’t look, don’t look at anything but the guards. Keep the routine.

Drip drop.

Lock eyes. He throws the keys.

Unlock myself.

Heart beating so fucking fast.

Slide chains over.

Sweating, just stay calm.

Drip drop Drip.

Get my food tray.

Lights off. … Wait. WAIT.

There. Doors are closed. Scramble on the floor. On my knees, searching.

There. Finally.

Ballpoint pen. It even has a metal tip.

Drip.

9

No time now. Have to fashion a lockpick.

Feel my way through it in the dark.

Know the dimensions exactly. Can feel them every time I put on the cuffs.

Scrape the clip across the stone. Make it square.

There. Perfect.

Drip drop.

Now… gotta wait.

Gonna stab him with the pen.

Hope I can get a good blow to the side of the head.

Good thing, too. One more day and I won’t recognize myself.

Last conscious thought before the screams start again.

Drip drop Drip.

10

A hand, resting on the floor. Dripping blood.

“Stupid bastard shouldn’t have tried to escape. What do you think, Doctor?”

Doctor Carl Simmons, PH.D in Neurophysiology, studies the corpse. His nostrils flare as he takes in the smell of iron, urine, and fecal matter. The smell of death.

“Did he beg at all during his time here?”

Drip.

One of the guards shuffles his feet. “Yeah, about 6 months ago. Then he stopped.”

“Any clue as to why?”

“We switched guards about six months ago. After that, he became silent and much more watchful.”

Drip drop.

Dr. Simmons nods. “Of course.”

The shift leader is curious. “What was the goal here, Doctor?”

Simmons frowns, making a note on his clip board. He is frustrated at this latest incident. Similar to the last dozens. Apparently, no human will be beaten into submission with silence and darkness.

Drip drop Drip.

The solitude only makes them more desperate to escape.

“Double the guards on each cell. Be extra vigilant. We can’t waste anymore prisoners.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Simmons strides quickly to the elevator.

Drip.

He can’t abide the smells, much less the sounds.

Dear God, he can still hear the dripping of the man’s blood. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he feels it is on his hands.

He dismisses the thought, as the elevator to the underground prison opens to his office in downtown Denver, Colorado.

Drip drop.

He walks quietly back to his office to input notes on his computer. His notes will be disseminated to the Director of Human Psychoanalysis for the Department of Human Services. He has been head of his department for ten years.

In all that time, he has never actually stood in one of the cells. This was his first.

As he types, he can still hear the drips.

Drip drop Drip.