Torment
Let me ask you something. What do you know about pain?
A week ago, a guy called Timothy “Red” Ron was dragged by a handful of his scruffy brown hair onto the center of Platform Ater— a hexagonal rise of concrete set in the middle of the camp — and was read his last rites. There was no Bible; it was really a bunch of soldiers shouting expletives at him, stopping only to punctuate their f-words and c-words and d-words with gunshots fired into the sky. Thinking back, I wish they’d spared one of their bullets for him.
Ron and I had gone to the same college, at least until the war had started to turn towards us and a stray artillery shell burrowed a hole in the principal’s office. He used to play basketball, even when it was still a sport we were having a hard time getting used to; a damned good shooter, he was on his way towards making it to the one or two teams we had then. He got his game name — “Red” — from the sleeveless red T that he always wore, his sinewy hands extending from it like rods lumped with muscles, long and stout and… they handled the ball like it was magic. It was some kind of sorcery, as if the ball was bewitched to follow him wherever he went. His slam-dunks almost shattered the backboard glass.
Red Ron! Red Ron! Red Ron! they cheered, the other boys who always gathered to see him play.
That was then.
The soldiers at the camp made him bend over a long table, and they bound his wrists to it using the makeshift metallic hoops welded onto its top. His outstretched hands glistened in the blaring sun. From the armory, a man came with an axe. He came strutting gleefully, his demeanor taunting and comical, like a gladiator whose only quarry was a bleating goat. Once he was close enough, he flaunted his axe for everyone to see, its sharp edge catching the sun in a swath of blinding gold; he side-stepped towards his prey and brought his axe down, severing Ron’s hand an inch below his shoulder. Then he carefully went over to the other side and did the same thing to the other hand.
After the initial screams had subsided, I saw Ron looking at his empty shoulders and weeping. He looked at me standing in the distance, and his eyes spoke of a sorrow no mortal could ever understand. Somehow, even in such pain, it seemed to hurt him more that he would never be able to play basketball again. Football could not be a better alternative, at least not to him, but before his body was wheeled on a cart up the hill and then thrown over the cliff, they removed his legs, too, for good measure.
This is how life goes on in camp Dolor.
There are the tormentors, and there are the tormented. There are the living, and there are the living-dead.
I sometimes take a handful of blood-drenched sand and smell it for apparently no reason at all. Even after several days it smells just the same as the day it was bled; it evokes a taste in my mouth as if my gums are bleeding, or as if I have bitten on a piece of rusted iron. And then a sharp cold passes through my body, and my own blood drains from my palms, leaving pale flesh behind.
They always torture the prisoners on Platform Ater because it is exactly at the center of the camp and the other men can watch what is happening. They can watch the blood spouting from the arms and legs and hear the sharp, deafening cries. Fear does some terrible things. Some wail in terror, even whine, while some others retch white froth. But most of them close their eyes and curl themselves in a corner, pretending not to hear anything.
Sleep is hard to come by, if at all. Every night as I try to close my eyes, phantom screams ring in my ears like the sounds of an approaching siren. Sleep really loses its purpose when you understand you are only going to wake up in the same nightmare every time. Tomorrow there might be more blood, more violent screams. The fear of this possibility swells in my mind until I can’t sleep anymore and I have to pass my night wide-eyed with horror. Sometimes, the hope that a miracle will happen keeps me awake, too.
Except —
It only gets worse.
Because it is not everyday someone gets lucky enough to only have their arms and legs torn off; the soldiers use eye-clamps to wedge the eyes of the prisoners open, and bore into them using a drilling machine. Or think about this: they use a similar clamp to keep the mouth open and (I close my eyes) pour acid down their gullets. If the soldiers can come up with a new way to make the enemies of the state suffer, the officers can make sure to supply them with the engineering to make it happen.
The quickest and easiest way out of the camp, therefore, is a bullet. A bullet — nothing more, nothing less. I’ve seen men trying to starve themselves to death, but trust me, stuff like that never really works.
Just after the spring runoff last month when a surprise sleet slanted down the hill, one of the prisoners managed to choke a soldier to death by wringing his hands around his neck through the bars of his cell.
Where did he get the courage to do something like that? That is beyond me. The spotlights illuminated curtains of rain between the cells and the perimeter, but if he timed it right, the night could well conceal his movements — eat him up here and spit him on the other side. And the keys! The guard had the keys, so he could open up every cramped cell, cause a riot, an uprising, and then take everyone to the armory where there were enough guns to…
But did he go for the keys?
No.
He went for the gun. It was a Walther P38; and as soon as he got his hands on it, he drove its muzzle into his mouth and pulled the trigger. It had 7 rounds left, and seven others who were able to acquire it afterwards (not without fighting) followed suit. They were the luckiest so far, and I remember being glad that they had done it. An uprising was a fantasy, and no one would have had the strength to make it happen, anyway.
It seems that thinking about these things is all I can do anymore.
Camp Dolor. It takes a part of you and keeps it for itself. When can I leave this place?
Sometimes I feel like I am suffocating, like the air has become solid like a blood-clot and my lungs are filling up with chunks of it. You’ll be amazed at how easy it really is to lose your grasp on reality in a place like this. My mind is bifurcated, and I try to live on the best side of it, the side that is innocent, the side that knows the kid who a few years ago was trying to make it in —
Someone tugs at my arm and I am brought back to the horror of the present. It is a soldier with his rifle slinging over his chest. An officer stands a few paces behind. It is the officer who speaks: “Lad, it’s your turn now.”
The coldness is back, and I look at my palms whiten as a sheet of blood retracts in each. For a second I am speechless, not knowing what I could or should do; the officer — who stands with his feet apart and his belly sagging over his belt — hardens his face and wears a sterner look.
“But — but — I was there last week — ”
“Get your ass moving, lad!”
I start to walk, but my eyes are closed. I don’t want to see anything. My feet find the way out into the sun, and I feel the soft sand which I know will be twinkling like particles of gold this time of the day; but I don’t see. A wind comes whistling and gusts against my pale chin, trying to tell me it is going to be okay. I hear faint murmurs all around me, whispers that make no sense. I am there, almost there. My feet hit against the hard concrete, and the smell of blood is back in my mouth again.
I open my eyes.
There’s a man who’s bent over the table, sweating and gasping for air like they always do. There’s an axe in my hand.
I close my eyes and bring it down.
