I
As he lay on the cold stone floor he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his cell, the heavy smack of boots on concrete gradually getting louder. He awoke from a dream of vague colour and a time now unfamiliar to him, as if a voyeur watching life through someone else’s eyes. The heavy gunmetal door of the cell shuddered under the thud of two kicks at its base and he stood up and faced the wall opposite, both hands interlocked behind his head. The door swung open and the usual duo of guards entered the cell, one pressing a riflebarrel against the back of his head, the other placing a worn plastic tray on the floor. They backed out, wordless and in unison, slamming the door with deliberate force. The door was kicked again and he turned to investigate the tray, but it was nothing out of the ordinary: A lump of hard bread. A small cup of lukewarm water. A washcloth. Shit, he said, same old, same old.
John stood in the middle of the cell, stretching to touch the walls either side of him. He bent and picked up his half-eaten bread and he chewed it slowly, walking barefoot in slow circles around the cell. So, he thought. What are we doing today? He dropped to one knee and he eased himself forward into a press-up position, shuffling his feet backward and his arms out wide. Make it a hundred, he said. Let’s go. He started at a slow pace, gradually building speed, keeping his breathing at a steady rhythm. Counting, coughing. Before long he stopped, resting his head on the cool stone. That’s alright, he said. Who’s counting anyway. Rolling onto his back, he lay himself flat, trying to catch his breath. His eyes peered deep into the cracked grey ceiling. Before long he drifted into a near-dream, his mind wandering from one figment to another. The rolling surf over his feet, the ocean spray soothing his face. A woodland clearing in summer. A busy street with innumerable voices. Alright, he said. Enough of that.
He sat slouched against the wall opposite the door tapping some unknown rhythm with his feet when he heard the boots of the guards approaching the cell. The door shook under the double kick, and he stood up again to face the wall. “Comida, levántate!” He stood as the two guards opened the door and entered the cell, one pointing a rifle at him, the other replacing the tray with a bowl of rice and more water. About time, he muttered. “Indoro?” John turned his head and nodded to the guard. A heavy cotton hood was placed over his head and he was lead out of the cell and down a silent corridor. Cold concrete underfoot. Thirty paces. A wooden door in front of him was hit twice before being opened, the bottom scraping along the ground. A faint breeze. Humid. The ground now soft and damp, like wet grass. The sound of rustling leaves. A guard led him behind a tree and prodded him in the back with his rifle. When he finished, the guard took him back to his cell and took off the hood and closed the door behind him.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, eating handfuls of rice and making patterns with his finger in his fading wet footprints. Lines and crosses, a circle. A smiling face. He finished what was left of the rice and drank most of the water, rubbing the rest in his eyes and his teeth, then he lay on his side with his arm under his head and he thought of the freedom that seemed so alien to him. He tried to picture the world outside but when he did all he could think of was the sadness he felt at not being a part of it. Eventually he slept and his dreams were of a tumultuous darkness and when he awoke he felt no better.
II
He woke with a dull remnant of a dream stuck in his head. Only the feeling of it left over. He tried to recall the faces of those long gone. His father, past girlfriends. Then he’d try the places, but he could only remember vague colours, like the memory of a child. He opened his eyes. After a few weeks he realised the cell was longer than it was wide by what seemed no more than a foot. Maybe more. He sat at one end and peered down the makeshift corridor and he let his eyes wander out of focus. The walls at either side would contract and expand and the grey slab opposite would slide away and back again before he realised his mind was playing tricks on him. As if realising you’re flying in a dream before you fall toward the sea.
John sat silently against the wall of the cell, running a hand through his lank and matted hair. He stared blankly in front of him, trying to see beyond the stone into a world just out of focus. His back was knotted from months of sleeping on the floor and his body was a withered shell of its former self, like bones covered in a pale sheet. His eyes sat deep in his worn face, a beard scarcely covering his gaunt cheekbones. On the wall to his left were the tallied scratchmarks for which the guards beat him when they noticed. Any minute now, he said. He dragged himself to his feet and he faced the wall at the sound of the guards walking toward the cell, their boots echoing in the corridor like a distant drum. The door was kicked and then opened and he was brought to his knees by a blow to the back of his neck, the pain rising in him like a hot shard. A second guard placed a hood over his head and held him as the other beat him, his cries muffled through the dark and heavy cotton. A taste of iron settled in his mouth before he was hit in the head with the butt of a rifle and dragged motionless from the cold dark silence of the cell.
He opened his eyes to an unwavering blackness, the bloodsoaked cotton of the hood sticking to his face like plaster. He tried to move his arms and his legs, but they were bound tightly to a hardwood chair. He tried to force himself free but the pain swelled sharply, his fingers grating on the armrest. Calm down, he thought. Think. He tried to pierce the darkness with his hearing but all he could think of was his unbearable thirst. Concentrate. Distant footsteps. Somewhere behind him a door opened and he heard the familiar sound of boots approaching, farther than usual. They stopped. “Agua,” he pleaded, laboriously. “Agua. Por favor.” The guard turned and shouted into the corridor and another backed through the door. Something being dragged along the floor. It was dropped heavily behind him and the hood was taken from his head. The guard in front nodded to the other and he came round with a cup of water. “Sediento?” “Si.” He opened his mouth and the guard tipped the cup slowly, the water relieving him only slightly. The guards walked behind and spoke among themselves before one left the cell and the other stood in front of him. His mouth still bloodied and his left eye bruised. The guard stood staring at him and he tried to make eye contact but he felt as if he was somehow doing something wrong. The other guard returned with a tray holding the usual contents and they untied his arms and his legs before backing out, closing the door behind them.
As he sat in the chair, he began to realise just how much bigger the new room was compared to the cell. He rubbed his wrists, strangely in awe of his new surroundings. Leaning forward, he tore off a piece of bread and dabbed the washcloth in the water before rubbing his face, the dried blood staining the cotton pink. He rubbed his swollen eye and grimaced as the wet cloth passed over his bruised skin. He finished what was left of the water and he rose slowly from the chair, his ribs aching sharply when he stood up straight. Turning to investigate the room, he discovered that it was essentially a bigger version of the cell: the same cracked concrete and monochrome colours save the dull red of the door. He stopped dead. On the floor behind the chair lay a man, unconscious and beaten. His head was covered with an earthstained hood reddened around the mouth and his hands were tied behind his back with rope. He stood for a moment, his eyes never leaving the curious mass before him. He prodded the man with his foot but he didn’t stir. Alright, he said. Let’s just think about this.
He went to the chair and turned it before sitting down, dulling the pain in his side. Before long he stood up again and he approached the man, rolling him over onto his back. He pulled the hood from his head. Christ, he thought. Underneath the hood and the bruising and the dried blood was the face of a young man, barely twenty years old, his chin stubbled and gashed. His skin was of a dark complexion and his hair was thick and black. He dragged him from behind the chair to a wall and he propped him up against it. The man was barefoot and wearing overalls similar to his own, pocketless and torn. He thought about untying his hands but he didn’t. The man stirred. He took a step back and eyed him, but in the end he barely moved. “Are you alright?”
A guard opened the door as John stood facing the wall and they entered the room, placing the trays on the floor. A guard approached the unconscious man, feeling for his pulse. He tried to turn his head to see what was happening, but instead he caught the eye of the guard near the door. They spoke amongst themselves and before long they left. He turned and thought about shouting to the guards but in the end he said nothing. He looked at the man leaning against the wall, his hands still tied behind his back. Who are you? he thought. The man stirred again. John stood watching him as he noticed the man’s eyes half-opening, his mouth moving slightly. He went over to the tray lying next to the man and he took the cup of water and he kneeled in front of him. “What is it?” he asked. The man tried to speak but he couldn’t, his lips dried and cracked like sunburn. He put the cup to the man’s mouth and tipped it slowly. “It’s alright,” he said, “drink this.” The man swallowed the water sharply as if his throat were coated with rust. He mouthed at him for more. He tried to look up at him but he struggled to open his eyes. Like some newborn animal. “Are you hungry?” The man didn’t answer and he slid onto his side and passed out. John untied his hands and propped him up against the wall before putting the cup of water back onto the tray. He picked up the washcloth and he dabbed at the man’s temple and his mouth, washing away the dirt and the blood. The man’s head dropped forward as if collapsing under its own weight and he uttered half-formed words into the cell that seemed to hang in the air like vapour. John stood watching him and he thought about how this was the first man he’d seen other than the guards in what must be close to a year. Maybe the last. He stood and he listened to the man’s mumbled words and he wondered what he should do next.
III
The darkness and the silence of the cell was broken as the door swung open, its metal frame crashing violently against the stone wall. John stood quickly but he collapsed against the wall in a haze. A shock of light pierced his half-closed eyes as he tried to regain his bearings. Two guards ran into the cell and went straight for the man sprawled along the floor. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice dull and serrated. A guard turned and pointed with his rifle and the other dragged the man to the corridor by his feet. He stood watching. He waited until they left before hurrying toward the door. He pressed his ear against it. Nothing. As he crouched next to the metal frame his ears began to ring and he was overcome with dizziness. He fell back against the door and slid down, his frail heart beating visibly under his chest. He reached for his half-empty cup and drank with a razorous convulsion. His head began to clear when he heard something through the door. Shouting, screaming. He rose to his feet and began beating on the door. A gunshot. Silence. He tried to pound on the door once more but instead he dropped to his knees and began coughing, a red mist gluing itself between the cracks in the floor.
Hours had passed before the guards returned to the cell. John lay on his back, barely registering the sounds coming from the door. It opened. Two guards entered with their rifles pointed downward. He stayed still. They pulled his subdued body to its feet and he slumped forward as they led him out. Once he was in the corridor they placed a hood over his head. They took him toward the heavy wooden door and opened it, a cold wind rushing through the gap. It was nighttime. He could feel it. They prodded him in the back and then pushed him to his knees, the ground beneath him soft and damp. His heart pounded in his chest. The sound of a rifle being cocked behind him. He dropped forward and clutched his arm. The guards shouted and threatened him as he lay shuddering on the cool dewed grass. They took off his hood and stood over him and after a while they walked away. His ears were filled with a high-pitch drone and then he lay still, his eyes wide and mouth hung open. In the air, the sound of wind and the threat of rain to come.
