Drip. Drip. Drip. A steady, endless tattoo. Is its source condensation from the damp ceiling or my own blood? At this point, I’m beyond caring.
Past caring whether my captors whip, interrogate, or tighten the chains wrenching my battered arms above the invisible floor. Beyond wondering what will happen when they tire of my obstinance. I avoid wondering, caring, or feeling; the last being hardest. Years of meaningless war in a canyon built tolerance to pointless thoughts and I can talk myself out of caring, but not feeling your whole weight swinging from your wrists…day in and day out. Impossible.


Crushing darkness devours my vision. The effort of keeping my head high and squinting my swollen eyes is too great.
“What the heck?” I think listlessly, deciding to do the easiest thing; give up. Time is something incomprehensible, I could have been here for years or days. The torturous drug they inject me with, stealing the escape of sleep, makes clear thought an impossibility. Moments—be they minutes or hours—feel the same. One endless block of black stillness. The only sounds? My haggard breathing, the drip of an indefinable substance, and of course, my stifled cries when they torture me.


“Dex…?” The word seems familiar. I try, in my delirious state, to understand. “Dexter… are you ok?” The hushed voice…undeniably familiar, it’s tone dispels my delirium. I force my eyelids apart; the sight before me is truly for sore eyes.
“Ri-Rick…?” The tall figure is unmistakable… I daren’t trust hope. The pain in his spectacled eyes is evident, then fury. With inhuman strength, his robotic arm crushes the chains suspending me. He supports my limp form.
“I’m sorry Dex, I’ll get you out, I swear….” My only friend is the last thing I hear as I fall into blessed unconsciousness.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.08.2010

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