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The POW
This is a short story I wrote kinda out of nowhere. So tell me what you think and any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated so don't hold back! Alright here it goes...
The P.O.W.
The walls were damp and discolored, and cracked in most areas. There wasn’t anything to sit on, just a hard concrete floor which was in worse condition than the walls. The floor was muddy and cold. The air was thin and heavy with the fumes of decaying bodies, making the natural task of breathing unbearable. Shouts in foreign languages echoed off the concrete walls, and the fast footsteps of the enemy struck fear into the soldier’s heart. The flickering of a single dim bulb added to his anxiousness, and nauseated him further.
Private Nash’s capturers threw him into his cell at nearly 6:00 a.m. yesterday morning. His nerves had his head pounding and it distracted him from his mission. Before long he had wandered deeper into his enemies territory alone, and unprepared for an attack. Without much of a choice he was forced to surrender to the group of soldiers that found him. They took no mercy on him. If he didn’t cooperate they would starve him, torture him, and make him “beg for death” before the end.
Sensing that he would soon die a painful death, he tried to think of everything good he had in his life. A wife he knew, if he was able to go home to her, he would spend the rest of his life with. The only argument they would have was whether they were spending enough time with each other or not. He had to smile at the thought of her. She, he thought, was the best thing God had given him, perhaps too good to have forever. Closing his eyes he tried to escape from his prison and return to his home in California. He had so many goals and plans he hadn’t reached in his life yet. He was so young and already close to death, and the worse part was knowing that as long as he remained a prisoner he would die. He hated to admit it but he was praying for death to sweep by and take him to heaven or wherever he would be sent, whatever place that is, it had to be better than where he was.
There it was again. The monotonous thuds of boots hitting the floor. The sound would get louder and clearer until it reached the front of his cell then it would retreat to the spot it had begun. The hourly check made his stomach turn, and beads of sweat roll down his face and burn the cut skin on his cheeks. Every thud was a warning, a reminder of his condition. He knew he had a lot to live for, but hope was slipping away along with his faith. He wanted to die then and there. He knew it would please the enemy soldiers to know he wanted death so soon, but he didn’t care about that. He just wanted to get out. His mind was flooded with ideas of killing himself, but how? He searched his mind for a possible way to end his misery, until he remembered the knife. The soldiers hadn’t checked his boot; they had taken all of his weapons except for the small blade fitted snuggly against his ankle. He bent over to pull out the knife, the movement made his back twinge. He held the knife in his hand and he looked at it, he never thought he would have needed it but now it would be what decided how he died.
Again his life played over in his head, until he got to the present time. His capture as a prisoner of war. He gripped the knife tighter and his whole body shook as tears escaped from his tightly shut lids. I’ll never be rescued, There isn’t a chance of me surviving this, he mumbled to himself. He raised the knife to his throat keeping his eyes shut. From outside he could hear gun shots, the sound rang in his head, they were near. Having lost all hope he told himself that the men were killing some of the other prisoners and that that would be his fate if he didn’t take his own life. His fist was white from gripping the knife so tightly, but he never loosened it. The blade gave him a sense of security, it was an easy way out. The noise outside continued, still he could hear men yelling orders in a language he couldn’t understand. Trying to make sense of it all he dropped the knife, and opened his eyes to see the large wooden door. His heart pounded, all his fears returned to him. He heard thuds from outside his cell, the same noise that was made when the soldiers came to check on him. He searched wildly with his hands for the blade, his eyes never straying from the door. The thuds stopped in front of his door, but this time they didn’t retreat. The door swung open. The light from outside made the prisoner wince. Letting his eyes quickly adjust he looked up at the man standing in the doorway. He recognized the man’s camouflage uniform and read on his sleeve ‘United States ARMY’.
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