Prisoner's Triumph

A Short Story

He awakes to bright sunlight streaming through his window. At least he has a window; most other cells here have only four brick walls. It is some solace in this meager existence.

He wonders what today’s test of endurance will be. In the endless days since his capture behind enemy lines, he has been subjected to every kind of torment possible. In a bizarre way, he has come to appreciate the pain. It means that he is still capable of feeling, capable of revenge. He also can appreciate the increasing effort put into each day’s session. It means that he is much stronger than his enemy…and himself…realize. But he wonders just how much longer he can withstand. One thing is sure; he will never relent. Never give up the priceless information he knows…never betray his country or his comrades. His captors would be forced to kill him first.

He is startled out of his musings by the rattle of a key in a lock. He glances up, and sees the familiar face of the one person he believes holds any sympathy for him. It is a guard, strangely enough, though, he has learned, not of the same country in which he is detained. In days past, this guard has smuggled him extra food, brought him new shorts and even cleansed his wounds after one particularly extreme beating. Today, however, he wears an expression of regret.

The prisoner swallows. “Well…what is it to be today?”

The guard sighs. “I really wish I didn’t have to tell you this. It seems they have ordered the worst flogging they can inflict.”

The prisoner replies, “Have you seen it before?”

“Yes, and each time, it’s worse than before. I’ve seldom seen men survive it; only those brawny and large of stature. Even then, there is permanent damage. Lean and smaller men like you never return to their cells.”

The prisoner stands. “Then so be it.” He turns his back to the guard, feels his hands securely tied at the wrists behind him. The guard begins to move toward the corridor. “Wait,” the prisoner says, as he turns his eyes to the window. He takes one last lingering look at the sunlight, then allows himself to be escorted through the door.

He is briskly marched to the familiar room, and received by another set of guards. Then the ordeal begins again. Forced to kneel on the cold stone floor, he hears the round of questions that are all the same as every day before: What is your mission? Where are your companions? Who is your leader? Where is your base?

To each, the prisoner replies with as much defiance and wit he could muster, as always. He knows it infuriates his captors, no doubt earning him extra punishment at their hands, but he doesn’t care. It is his only pleasure, and he takes pride in his increasingly witty answers. Better to let them know he is no pushover and suffer their wrath than to let them ever see him break. It is a fate worse than the merciless death he is sure to earn himself someday…when they realize he is of no use to them.

At last, the interrogating guard looks away in disgust. “We are getting nowhere. Enough of this nonsense; begin the torture.”

The prisoner is jerked to his feet and led to the center of the room. His hands are untied, and placed into leather shackles, securely fastened to a long dangling chain. He is hoisted to his toes, but then lifted by several inches until his feet no longer touch the floor.

He glances slightly to the right and sees a formidable man enter the room. There is an air of undeniable superiority, but it is not this which catches the prisoner’s attention. The whip that man carries is truly the most frightening, sadistic and merciless instrument the prisoner has ever beheld. It appears to be of stout leather, but embedded with tiny barbs every few inches. The lingering effect of previous uses is clearly seen; dried blood.

The prisoner looks away and takes a deep breath. He tightens his resolve, summons his willpower, braces his shoulders. Then he waits…and waits…and waits. He begins to wonder, begins to worry, begins to hope, then…

Excruciating pain lights his back aflame from his left shoulder to the top of his shorts. His head drops back as a sharp cry escapes through his clenched teeth. The pain subsides, just slightly, and he opens his eyes. He realizes that he is looking into the face of his tormenter, as the impact from the lash has spun him completely around. The next lash lands partly on his chest, but wraps around to his back, spinning him back to his former position. He glances down at his chest; his shirt  is torn jaggedly through, and underneath, his skin is already broken and bleeding. The third lash rips a scream from his throat…the first of many.

The lashes soon blur into an endless sea of pain. Through tear filled eyes, he sometimes glances down to see the effects of the whip wrapping around; the amount of blood terrifies him. He realizes that his shirt is now gone, but just when it was taken away, he does not recall. All he can sense is the raging fire on his back…it is becoming unbearable. He feels his blood and sweat mixing together and running from his shoulders all the way down to his feet. His breathing now labored, his only option is to pant to get enough air. Silently he pleads, 'stop...just stop..."

After what seems like hours, he faintly hears someone call, “Enough.” He is lowered to his feet, but he does not stand. Instead, as soon as he is released from the shackles, he collapses onto the floor, into a pool of his own blood and sweat. He barely opens his eyes to see a large pair of black boots walking towards him, and feels himself be lifted onto the sturdy shoulders of a man at least twice his size and weight. His last memory is of being gently placed on a table, and warm water caressing his back as the world goes dark.

He awakes to bright sunlight streaming through his window. Through the lingering fire of pain, he realizes that he has survived. That he will live to face another day. And that though his fight is far from over, he retains the immense satisfaction he has ever held. He remains unbroken. It is the greatest pride he has ever known.