In between two rocks on the side of a cliff, he could see it.
The prison looked like an impregnable fortress.
High walls like sheer sides of a mountain,
multiple rolls of barbwire on top.
Flood lights made the prison's inner and outer perimeters
look as if they were powdered with snow.
Who needs the sun?
Guard towers at every corner complete the message:
No escape, no rescue.
Only pain and death await those who try.
"Oh, but I will try," <hero> said softly to himself,
trembling as he did so.
It was very cold, but he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.
"For you have my flesh and blood. And I will not abandon him, even if it kills me."
These words he said to generate courage.
Didn't work. Despite all he'd been through,
the fear was still there. Stronger than ever.
His mind kept replaying
all the possible scenarios.
Death is one of them, less fearsome than others.
Torture. Physical and mental.
Losing his freedom,
his strength,
his mind.
To wither away for countless years,
alone in a concrete coffin,
denied the sweet release of death.
He could see himself.
An old man in a corner,
blind and barely coherent,
filthy and naked,
his rail thin body displaying countless scars from the years of torture.
And everyday he eagerly awaits the small piece of bread
that comes through the tiny slot that opens once a day.
He is grateful for it.
Whenever he gets just a little bit extra,
he shouts praises for his captors,
words that only he can understand,
sincere in his gratitude.
This kept making his fear grow even greater.
But another type of fear had emerged. And it is this fear that drives him.
The fear that his brother would be turned into that old man.
No. Never. Not while he still draws breath.
"I'm coming, brother. Wait for me."
