For creative_muses December Prompt 1
"I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter." - Sir Winston Churchill
He lay on floor, still. The guards, standing a respectful distance from his cell outside didn’t know if he was alive or dead. The man lying on the floor didn’t either.
It was another hour before he could push himself up where he lay. His entire body ached, but he didn’t cry out. That would only lead to more beatings. If he closed his eyes the sensations - being tipped slightly upside down, the filthy cloth roughly placed over his face, water hitting him, the knowledge that he was going to suffocate, that he would drown, the panic that elicited…
I don’t know what Sugarhorse is!
The man dived for the corner of the tiny cell, where there was a bucket for his use. Ignoring the stench of the shit and piss, he held his head over it, dry retching. He’d eaten nothing for three days, there was nothing left to come up.
He was going to die here, alone, forgotten by those he trusted. Of this he was certain. He knew how many years he’d been stuck in this hellhole by the number of tattoos.
Four years.
He began what had become a now daily ritual, after the torture and abuse, even though there was no one to listen.
“I am Lucas North…”
Lucas North
Spooks
Word Count: 213
He lay on floor, still. The guards, standing a respectful distance from his cell outside didn’t know if he was alive or dead. The man lying on the floor didn’t either.
It was another hour before he could push himself up where he lay. His entire body ached, but he didn’t cry out. That would only lead to more beatings. If he closed his eyes the sensations - being tipped slightly upside down, the filthy cloth roughly placed over his face, water hitting him, the knowledge that he was going to suffocate, that he would drown, the panic that elicited…
I don’t know what Sugarhorse is!
The man dived for the corner of the tiny cell, where there was a bucket for his use. Ignoring the stench of the shit and piss, he held his head over it, dry retching. He’d eaten nothing for three days, there was nothing left to come up.
He was going to die here, alone, forgotten by those he trusted. Of this he was certain. He knew how many years he’d been stuck in this hellhole by the number of tattoos.
Four years.
He began what had become a now daily ritual, after the torture and abuse, even though there was no one to listen.
“I am Lucas North…”
Lucas North
Spooks
Word Count: 213