I curled up in a makeshift ball on the cold, hard floor. With an empty ache resonating deep inside of me, my throat was dry and my nose ran, tears were dried on my cheeks and neck, collecting in a puddle around my face, making a moat between me and any happiness that attempted to enter, so it couldn’t reach the haunted residence that occupied my gray, desolate eyes. My pain had little to do with my physical wounds, unfortunately it wasn’t just my body that was dying, it was my hope, my sanity, my soul.
My capture had been weeks ago, so many I had lost count, so many I dared not to count. I hate to recount my torture, but in order to explain- I’m forced to.
I was hired at the CIA at a young age, younger than most. I was bold and I took risks, but I got results. However, there is a reason that risky and dangerous often go hand in hand. The universe was bound to catch up with me-my risks had landed me in a Russian prison, charged with espionage. Completely alone with no options. All I had was my stubborn pride, my patriotism, and my hope. But slowly, they seeped out of me along with every drop of blood, every bruise, and every burn.
Although regret is meaningless, and we cannot change the past, I have had much time to reflect on my life between bouts of interrogation. I realized when facing the horror and inarticulate pain of pure unparalleled evil, how difficult it is to remain loyal. Loyalty and Heroism appear to be the axiomatic solution- a spy must die a steadfast patriot hero, rather than live as a snake. But it isn’t facing death which I fear, and which breaks down my mind and my morals- it is waiting for death. Waiting and wincing at the slightest noise, for fear of pain, terrified of what I might say to keep it from continuing.
No one ever believes that they would compromise their beliefs and their country in order to save themselves. But when you’re locked in a cold damp cell that reeks of blood and burning flesh, suffocated by roaring silence- you don’t just lose your mind and your loyalty, you lose yourself.
I once read a book by William Golding, I didn’t care for it much, but one line always stuck with me, "Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness in man's heart.” I had never truly understood it, until now.
I curled up in a makeshift ball on the cold, hard floor. With an empty ache resonating deep inside of me, my throat was dry and my nose ran, tears were dried on my cheeks and neck, collecting in a puddle around my face, making a moat between me and any happiness that attempted to enter, so it couldn’t reach the haunted residence that occupied my gray, desolate eyes. My pain had little to do with my physical wounds, unfortunately it wasn’t just my body that was dying, it was my hope, my sanity, my soul.
I died on the blood stained, dirty floor of a Russian prison cell. Degraded, deprived and disillusioned. I suppose they’d call me a loyal patriot for keeping silent. But all I know is that I faced weeks of torture and pain-I lost myself. For a country that will not release my identity, for a family that will never know my fate, for a cause I had little to do with.
I have faith in very little, but I remain faithful in this:
No death could be worse than loss of innocence, deterioration of morals, and dispossession of the self.