Being discovered by a scab class traitor who needed the reward to eat, he is captured and subjected to United Nations reportable incidents of the kind which make ITV Television reporters come in their pants.
The trucks rumbled me—woke me—up to pain and blackness, they hadn’t put my eyes out please? Please gods no, I’m too stupid to learn braille now. I can’t breathe, oh gods oh gods, oh its a hood, I’ve still got my eyes.
I can’t blame her. She must had needed to eat. Or get teeth pulled. Or her child was sick. You can’t blame them, they’re victims too. The leader is too far away. Everyone believes the Baron is good, even his party of gentlemen adventurers. I can’t blame her. I can’t feel my arms.
I can’t fall asleep either, but I can’t remain conscious, the hood is choking me, why are they trucking me, I haven’t been that important yet, not this life, I haven’t been important, please don’t let me be important, they’ll keep me alive.
I don’t awaken, dropping four feet onto my hooded face merely erupts me from the zone. The soldiers don’t speak the majority language. They’re an ethnic minority. I can’t blame them. They didn’t get to choose if they’d be conscripted as “specials.” The air is hot like Khazkhstan’s summer, or spring time for Gitmo. My mouth is dry from drooling. Oh gods they’re amateurs, my kidneys, they might accidentally kill me early, why can’t they drag me to my feet?
I try walking. I can’t. I can’t blame them. Their punches and somewhat generous manhandling keeps me upright. When my gut hits the table my arse hits the chair. Two blows to the neck with a baton. I don’t know if I go unconscious, if I don’t I must have zoned. Be right back, pissing blood.
The cane on my back awakens me, my legs are spread wider than my shoulders, my face and shoulder are pressed against a wall, my hands are still zip-tie cuffed at the thumbs. Someone runs the blade over the tie. My hands are now as naked as my back. The majority language shouts tell me to ball my feet and keep arched fingertips against the wall. The pommies invented this in Northern Ireland. Do try this at home kids. You can torture someone wherever there’s a wall.
I can barely manage three minutes, if those were minutes, before they have to cane me to comply. I can’t blame them. Its a job. A man has to eat. And there’s mortgages to keep and insurance to pay. Why can’t I blame them, where has all my protective hate gone? I shriek as they cane me to the balls of my feet.
I don’t know how long, how many strikes, all of me hurts. They haven’t asked me anything yet. Someone holds my wrist without tearing it out of its socket. There’s cool metal. Someone puts a clip on my thumb, but it doesn’t cut off the feeling. Someone marks a clipboard. Its a doctor, surely she’ll save me? Surely? No, the heels are receeding. I can’t blame her. She has an oath. She has to make sure I won’t die yet.
They drag me by my shoulders and put me in a room, with a light, and its cold, and they take the hood, and yell at me in majority to keep my arms above the blankets. Its freezing like SLON at MidWinter. Its freezing like the Лубянка is at all hours. The light is 120 watts. To keep my arms suicide watch I have to lie on my back. To lie on my back the 120 watts roast my eyelids open. I can’t blame them. I must be too valuable to let die. I am Jack’s prolapsed uterus. I am in the cold hearted white lighted blaze of the leader. I can’t blame the Baron. He’s merely a representative of the hate of the electorate.
Tomorrow is Yesterday in the life of Mission Missionovich. Yesterday is the See You Next Tuesday of the day after. I am not. I haven’t been since the second day. And then I am given soup, hot soup with meat. It makes me shit myself in the Commissar’s office. I can’t blame him. He believes. And what he believes in is right. But I have nothing to confess. And they refuse to let me die. And in the fourth month the Commissar is forced to abandon chats appealing to the interest of the Party of the Baron.
The day my left kidney fails is the day I confess to what I could not have done. But they have witnesses who have already testified in court against me. And if they say it, it must have been. The irony is that my kidney was taken after they broke me. They didn’t stop when my teeth were broken and I was screaming a nightmare of horrors I had done. I can’t blame them. You have to take pride in your work and be thorough.
Thankgoodness I spilt all over the floor and all over my comrades. Thankgoodness I did. I wasn’t there to take any more.
My comrades can’t blame me. I wasn’t present when I confessed.
The Chief Prosecutor commuted death to life. Now I can break Edith or Phüntso’s record in solitary. They keep up the suicide watch, but I am sharpening a fat wood slivver from the bed on the concrete render easy-wash wall. I keep it in my arsehole by day. It hurts, but the pain will soon be gone. Now I have until death to remember my cowardice on the floor soaked with my piss. If I had been strong they would have accidentally killed me. My only hope of escape is a lot of sodomy, and orgone decapitation.
Location: In your government’s custody (unacknowledged).
Location: Choosing to go insane to survive solitary.
