GWOT III - Finger
Dec. 17th, 2018 08:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT III - Finger
[This is a snippet for Global War of Terror III, in which Echo 18 is stripped of all but his life... the one thing he no longer valued after Day 2 of the Firecracker War.]
I am intimately familiar with this cell.
I've measured it with my hand. It is 34 handwidths long by 25 handwidths wide. It contains a built in concrete bunk, a combination sink/toilet for input and output respectively, and a built in shelf above that, one handwidth by seven hand widths, left over from when this was a human detention cell.
There is, set above the corner where I cannot reach it, an unblinking reflective mirror, a corner of a rounded dome. Within it, of course, is at least one camera. Likely audio monitoring as well.
No soap, no toilet paper. After my last session they finished taking away the last of my clothing. I am wearing a medical paper gown. No more underwear. Damn. I'd had hopes for that elastic waistband.
My left hand is swollen, especially the last two fingers. The ones the interrogator pulled on.
Worse is coming. Far worse. But he managed to dislocate them.
I have to reduce them. There is no medical care here, only more torture.
I hold my hand under the water in the sink to numb it. I have no way to block the drain unless I tear a strip across the bottom of the gown, and I have a better use for that.
Then I sit on the bunk, brace my right elbow against the wall, and ram my injured ring finger hard into my clenched right fist.
I do not scream. I have to thank the vet surgeon for her lessons in pain management, debriding my previous injuries without anesthetic.
The finger sets back in the socket. One more to go.
I brace my pinky and jam it in the same way.
When I wake up, I am lying on the bunk. I fouled myself. Damn it. Fortunately there is no such thing as a sheet or blanket.
Wow. That really, really hurt. And my pinky finger is still not reduced.
If I leave it out of socket, I could lose it. Then again, I might lose it anyway.
I numb the hand under cold water again. I brace more carefully.
I ram the pinky again.
"Ow... ohhhh..." I murmur, as the pain in the socket resets like a light switch.
Now I can clean up the bunk and myself, the most old fashioned way there is, with handfuls of water in the sink.
Afterwards I clean my hands carefully. Then I drink from the sink.
Only then do I look at the hem of the gown.
I am cold. There's no heating here. It is my duty to stay in as good a shape as I can.
Survival, evasion, resistance, escape.
That of course is why I am here. I am suspected of being a member of the Resistance. It is my duty to escape. Even though I am not.
The hem of the gown can be torn with my fingers. I tear off a strip four hand widths wide, all around the garment.
I wrap it around my head, for warmth. I curl up in a ball on the bunk, to preserve my body heat.
They chose my side for me. Long before my first arrest, my team was picked.
Picked in fire, by the flash and thermal pulse of the Firecracker. Picked in water, by the drowned sailors who didn't know what they were nuking. Picked in earth, by the spadesful of dirt we shoveled out to bury our beloved dead. Picked in air . . . by . . . by . . . the fallout from the strikes.
I have no faith. I am already dead. It is a matter of watching them strip my corpse, plundering my brain for the secrets they think I have.
Plot twist. I have none.
I prepare myself for the next torture session. They will take something that will mark me forever. An eye. A ball. A limb, perhaps by cutting a tendon. Maybe nose or ears.
Not just a finger.
I flex my left middle finger. Over and over again. Exercising it.
I'm going to need it soon.
[This is a snippet for Global War of Terror III, in which Echo 18 is stripped of all but his life... the one thing he no longer valued after Day 2 of the Firecracker War.]
I am intimately familiar with this cell.
I've measured it with my hand. It is 34 handwidths long by 25 handwidths wide. It contains a built in concrete bunk, a combination sink/toilet for input and output respectively, and a built in shelf above that, one handwidth by seven hand widths, left over from when this was a human detention cell.
There is, set above the corner where I cannot reach it, an unblinking reflective mirror, a corner of a rounded dome. Within it, of course, is at least one camera. Likely audio monitoring as well.
No soap, no toilet paper. After my last session they finished taking away the last of my clothing. I am wearing a medical paper gown. No more underwear. Damn. I'd had hopes for that elastic waistband.
My left hand is swollen, especially the last two fingers. The ones the interrogator pulled on.
Worse is coming. Far worse. But he managed to dislocate them.
I have to reduce them. There is no medical care here, only more torture.
I hold my hand under the water in the sink to numb it. I have no way to block the drain unless I tear a strip across the bottom of the gown, and I have a better use for that.
Then I sit on the bunk, brace my right elbow against the wall, and ram my injured ring finger hard into my clenched right fist.
I do not scream. I have to thank the vet surgeon for her lessons in pain management, debriding my previous injuries without anesthetic.
The finger sets back in the socket. One more to go.
I brace my pinky and jam it in the same way.
When I wake up, I am lying on the bunk. I fouled myself. Damn it. Fortunately there is no such thing as a sheet or blanket.
Wow. That really, really hurt. And my pinky finger is still not reduced.
If I leave it out of socket, I could lose it. Then again, I might lose it anyway.
I numb the hand under cold water again. I brace more carefully.
I ram the pinky again.
"Ow... ohhhh..." I murmur, as the pain in the socket resets like a light switch.
Now I can clean up the bunk and myself, the most old fashioned way there is, with handfuls of water in the sink.
Afterwards I clean my hands carefully. Then I drink from the sink.
Only then do I look at the hem of the gown.
I am cold. There's no heating here. It is my duty to stay in as good a shape as I can.
Survival, evasion, resistance, escape.
That of course is why I am here. I am suspected of being a member of the Resistance. It is my duty to escape. Even though I am not.
The hem of the gown can be torn with my fingers. I tear off a strip four hand widths wide, all around the garment.
I wrap it around my head, for warmth. I curl up in a ball on the bunk, to preserve my body heat.
They chose my side for me. Long before my first arrest, my team was picked.
Picked in fire, by the flash and thermal pulse of the Firecracker. Picked in water, by the drowned sailors who didn't know what they were nuking. Picked in earth, by the spadesful of dirt we shoveled out to bury our beloved dead. Picked in air . . . by . . . by . . . the fallout from the strikes.
I have no faith. I am already dead. It is a matter of watching them strip my corpse, plundering my brain for the secrets they think I have.
Plot twist. I have none.
I prepare myself for the next torture session. They will take something that will mark me forever. An eye. A ball. A limb, perhaps by cutting a tendon. Maybe nose or ears.
Not just a finger.
I flex my left middle finger. Over and over again. Exercising it.
I'm going to need it soon.
