Hope

Author’s note: I wrote this little bit of fiction after reading an article about Vietnam prisoners of war using the tap code to communicate.

I exist in a coffin of concrete. I say exist, because how can you be alive when you’ve forgotten the feel of sunlight?

Who knows how long since they dumped me in this cell. My clock is the times they bring food. Just enough to keep me conscious. Part of the torture I guess, that and the solitude and the whipping and sometimes other things, things I’ve tried to block out.

I spend the long hours fighting insanity. Talking with other prisoners by tapping on the walls. Sleeping as much as possible. Thinking.

I can’t help but think. About my family, of course. About my commander, current and former comrades, my high school folk club, the time I tricked my sister into eating a cricket.

It all feels like the shadow of a pleasant dream, and even the worst nightmares were never reality. But these things must be true, because I have lived them. I like to think that, out there, the sun still rises and sets and rises again. Just like it’s always done.

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