torsdag 11 februari 2010

Breaking a man


He would not break. Determination showered over him like the cold water had done a couple of hours ago. That had been their first attempt. As if a little cold water would do anything but refresh him, he wouldn´t be freezing to death in this humid heat. His feet were bound to the legs of the chair, his hands tied together under the seat with a thin leather cord making him hunched over in a rather uncomfortable manner.
   Time had passed, he could see that on the movement of the sun, but he didn´t know how much. His back was aching and he was beginning to feel light headed, as if his bent upper body restrained him from drawing breath properly. Did they think he would break from fatigue? These people were strange. He raised his head as much as he could to look into the eyes of his captor, a short, slender man with black hair sticking out from under his army cap. Coppery skin framed his almond shaped eyes and his face was set in a constant frown. He looked much like any of the other guards in the camp. Or any other Vietcong he´d seen since he first came here.
   The guard met his eyes. There was a change, as if a light has been turned on behind the black irises. This was it, he had proved that being wet and uncomfortable wouldn´t make him talk. This man, just a few feet away, was just waiting for that, so he could bring out the tools of his trade. He turned his back on the prisoner and grabbed two tongs connected with cords to the wall, just next to a lever. The frown had been replaced by an almost unnoticeable smug grin which grew just a little when he attached one of the tongs to the skin of the left side of the prisoners neck. The other one was dug into the flesh of the right thigh.
   It hurt, those tongs were probably designed to be used in heavy machinery, not on humans. But he would not break. He knew what was going to happen, they would send thousands of volts through his heart and he would scream. Then they would stop, ask him a question and then pull the lever again and he would scream and scream and scream until there were no screams left. But he would not tell them anything.
“Well, little man”, his jailor spoke with a heavy asian accent. “You now face the choice of being electrocuted and telling me what I want to know”. The small, smug grin had grown to a full face smile. Those eyes were cold as ice but burned at the same time. The soldier lifted his head, gathered as if to speak and spit the Vietcong right in that smile. Scowling, the guard flipped the lever. The man jolted, every muscle tensing to the brink of breaking from the amount of electricity flowing through them. His back arched and his fetters tore deep wounds in his wrists and ankles as he strained against them. He screamed, as loud as a man had ever screamed being completely out of control of his body.

Seconds, long as hours, passed and the guard turned off the power. The prisoner slumped, exhausted from the muscular strain as much as the pain. Blood trickled down from the corners of his mouth and from his wrists. He could no longer feel the pain, it felt like heaven. But he knew he was nowhere near heaven, he was as close to hell a man could come without dying.
   Slowly, he looked up. He tried to spit again, only spraying a bit of blood into the air in front of him. His captor looked at him with contempt, his hand moving to grip the lever again. Pain, that was all he saw when the current surged through his body. Burning, searing, blinding white pain. From far away he could hear the scream of a man, a man in such terrible agony it might match his own. He fell into a heap in his chair when the power of the electricity released him. That scream had been his own. He felt the residues of the of the white, hot pain leaving his veins and he wished for death. His secrets were safe, he couldn´t form one word with his mouth, he was completely numb. There would be so much more agony before he was allowed back to his cage but he had known all along that they wouldn´t let him die. He would be kept alive and screaming, alive and feeling. If he would pass out, they would wake him. They didn´t care about his information, it wouldn´t do them any good anyway. They just wanted to break him, for him to beg for mercy, for death. But he would not break. He would not give them that satisfaction.

5 kommentarer:

  1. Svettigt. Det är väl bara jag men jag tycker att det är litet rasismvarning på beskrivningen av FNL-soldaten.

    SvaraRadera
  2. Bra - jag skulle gärna ha mer psykologiskt spel mellan torteraren och offret - för sånt gillar jag. Få dyka in lite till.
    Tokgillar:he was as close to hell a man could come without dying, samtidigt som jag undrar om det kan vara så att det redan är välanvänt i texter. Gillar också verkligen när han hörde "ngn annan" skrika - så man trodde det - fast det var han själv: snyggt.
    Tack för din kommentar på min text, *skratt* det vore faktiskt roligt att få veta vad hon tänker dagen efter :-)

    SvaraRadera
  3. Tack! för att du visade hur man gör en länk!

    SvaraRadera
  4. marmoria: Lite grann så var tanken, det är ändå en soldat som förväntar sig tortyr från fienden som sitter där - helt objektiv lär han inte vara. :)

    Escargot: Jag hade hoppats att den skulle bli längre, mer interaktion efter första elchocken men jag kände att jag hade orken just då, jag är inte helt frisk för tillfället. Hoppas det funkar med länkningen sen!

    SvaraRadera
  5. du har bra "kritiker", håller med dem och ser också ditt svar som: naturligtvis!
    Gillar inte genren dock=(

    SvaraRadera