The sound of whooping coughs sent chills down the man’s spine. The incessant moans were like cruel songs of death. The pungent smell of rotting flesh filled the dark muggy room. Something crawled up his leg, but he was too weak to kill it. It scuttled up his leg and across his chest before stopping on his arm. The hair on his arm stood up as the insects many legs went across it and finally back to the floor. The blood from the blow to his head had stopped flowing, leaving a dark stain on his tattered shirt and a thick black crust over his left eye. His mouth had dried out and a sharp pain shot through his throat when he tried to swallow. He had lost track of the days he had spent on the damp, cold concrete floor. He had passed in and out of consciousness and couldn’t tell how long he had been out. The body on his right had stopped moving a few days before and the scurrying of cockroaches next to him told him the man was dead.
He remembered when he was first thrown in this death trap. It felt like ages ago. He remembered stepping on helpless bodies, the sound of crunching old bones beneath his feet, as he was pushed to a corner of the room. He remembered hearing the moans for the first time. They were desperate cries of sorrow. Shriveled hands reached out to him as he walked by. There was hardly an open space on the floor. As he was pushed into the corner by a guard, he saw a look of horror on one prisoner’s face that he would never forget. The prisoner’s eyes were sunken into a thin, skull like face. His pupils were open wide, even in the small light from the torch the guard held. It was a look of shock, as if he had just seen a ghost and his face was forever frozen in that position. This horrifying sight was the last thing the man saw before the light and his life closed behind the large wooden door.
He tried to daydream about the days when he was still free. Not just outside the prison walls, but actually free. No war, no anger, or hatred. When he had no weight to bear or blood on his fingers. Back to when he was a child. The sun was what he missed most. The warm, gentle feeling against his skin. When he was young, he would sometimes get up early to watch the sunrise. He would sneak out his door quietly, so that he wouldn’t wake his parents. The mountains near his house were only a short jog away. The sight of bright orange, red, and yellow cast across the sky was beautiful to him. It was a vision he tried to keep inside his head. But the eyes kept returning. The cold, icy stare of the dark brown eyes. They seemed to be looking straight into his soul. He’d have nightmares about them almost every night he slept. The nightmares seemed so real; almost too real. He’d be walking down a long narrow tunnel. The walls were crumbling stone and the ground was soft dirt against his bare feet. At the end of the hall was a body. When he bent to turn the body over it was his face, only with the sunken in eyes and look of horror. It was the same dream every night. He had stopped sleeping a while ago and only dozed off every once in a while. But he would quickly wake himself up whenever he did. It was a battle just to keep his sanity.
“Is that going to be me?” he’d wonder.
“Nothing but a lifeless body. All the livelihood gone. My soul drained. Rotting away unknown to the world. Forgotten. Lost. Dead.”
He’d scream out some nights, his voice lost among the cries of others. Maybe if he screamed loud enough someone would hear. Maybe if he were lucky he would die soon. Why hadn’t they just killed him? It would have been so much easier. He would welcome death now. He would finally be able to rest.
This day wasn’t much different than the rest. He had stopped moaning. It hurt his throat too much and the pain had begun to reach his stomach. The pain was spreading through his whole body. He could feel a throbbing in his nose and his ears had started ringing. Another bug crawled up him. It was as if they could smell his death coming. He opened his one good eye. Darkness. He could see as much with his eyes closed as he could with them open. A rat crawled up his arm. The tail felt like a thick rope. He closed his eye.
“Please come death,” he whispered. He suddenly grew angry with himself. How could he give in so easily? How could he let them win? He couldn’t die yet; it was too soon.
He heard a scratching sound in the distance. The sound of wood chips scratching against the stone floor. The door had opened. The moans grew louder as he heard footsteps walk across the room. The footsteps stopped after a few moments and the flick of a match being lit was heard. He opened his eye. The small light revealed the silhouette of a woman among the long shadows of the room. She was holding a small gun. She circled the room holding match after match up to prisoners’ faces. Finally she came to him. She held the light near his face. He could not make out her face nor did he care to. She stood straight up, facing him. She flicked the match forward. As it fell to his feet, she pointed the gun straight at him, the light in front of her creating a dark shadow across her face. The match hit the ground. The man looked up.
“Death.”
She fired.

test post for short fiction section