Friday, February 20, 2009
A Broken Man
When they finally came for him, he had no idea what time it was. It was maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe even months since he'd seen light spill through a window, most of it spent locked alone in the small, cramped cell, the fluorescent light above coming on and off in unmeasurable intervals.
They'd come a lot for him in the beginning, taking him into a room with masked interrogators who beat him, held him under water, forced him into stress positions for hours on end while they paced about him sneering epithets at his family, his nation, his religion, and especially and always himself. They knew everything about him, oh yes, all of his faults and failings and vices and vile deeds, and they picked every single one of them apart simply for the joy of humiliating him. Then they'd toss him back into the cell, traumatized and shaking, and keep him from sleeping by playing loud music endlessly over the speakers. Always the sort of music they knew he hated, of course, for they knew that aspect of him with perfection as well and they went at him with everything they could.
He'd told them everything they wanted to know, right from the beginning, of course. He had nothing to hide, and didn't believe in lies anyway. He had no use for them. In fact you might say that's why they ultimately ended up taking him.
Well, that and he'd participated in a raid on a work camp out in the forest. Such acts were prone to draw their attention.
At any rate they'd gotten what information he was good for out 0f him early. It didn't matter, whatever he knew availed them nought. He was but a cell in the body of the Revolution, an insignificant part of a gathering swell whose very nature made it's triumph inevitable, for it's strengths were based upon the buckling weak points of the prison planet's control system. So they didn't keep him for information, nor was that why they tortured him. They tortured him because they wanted him to break clear through to the very core of his being, break his very soul to their will, and they did that only because getting that control made them hard and doing it rough made them harder. In this they were the embodiment of the wheezing hierarchical machine that had dominated the planet this past age.
Deep, deep down, he thanked them. So long and with such passion had he thanked them that gratitude for what they were subjecting him to suffused his psyche, for though they knew it not, by attempting to 'break clear through to core of his being', they were opening that same path for him more quickly and surely than he might ever have accomplished on his own. It was wrenching and traumatic, yes, of that they was no doubt: but it was immensely cathartic, as well. The gratitude he felt for this opportunity balanced itself against agony every moment, doing an internal dance within his soul that had long since ignited a fire, as it were, one that burned away at the atoms of his consciousness. The end result of the process - and he knew this well - was to be the crystallization of his etheric body into something that could never die.
His captors did not believe in things like souls and etheric bodies. Save, that was, for a small number who knew very well of such things. He had learned long ago that in a place like this that sort were the very worst. But then that was true anywhere, for those who believed in the soul and concealed that knowledge to use against others were the most dangerous creatures in creation. This place, however, had more than its share of that type. As for the rest of them, though, they didn't acknowledge, nor were capable of perceiving the existence of anything save dumb matter, and that was why they dumbly thought that they could exert their will over anything in any meaningful way, and reacted with such a petulantly predictable escalation of violence whenever their expectations ran up against the incontrovertible evidence that every particle of creation possessed in at least some respect free will.
It had been a long time since they'd last come for him when he at last heard steps pause outside his door. They'd left him there, locked alone in that cell, for what might have been months.
He knew, somehow, after the last beating, that for him there were only two ways out. He might, perhaps, be freed, should the Revolution reach him in time. Ah, but that would be a slow-burning affair, the last embers of which would not be extinguished for some years, and his captors would hang on, he knew, until the bitter end. So if not that, the other - much more likely - route out was his eventual execution.
The door slammed open, light spilling into the room. He sat in the center, in full lotus, hands that had been repeatedly broken and clumsily re-set holding a simple mudra, just as he had been sitting for hours. His eyes opened as the door did, directly on to those of a guard, the rest of his face obscured behind a ski mask. Before the guard could grab him and haul him to his feet, he stood up freely, fluidly, his limbs unknotting themselves with a grace that had been painstakingly regained through a faithful and deliberate yoga practice he'd kept up while in the cell. It was amazing the injuries one could recover from, if you but knew your body well enough, and had the patience and the will to coax it along.
Pre-empted, the guard hovered in the doorway, uncertain. The skin around the guard's eyes was a youth's, smooth. The eyes themselves were a little bloodshot and jittery; he was wired on something, energy drinks or meth or maybe even coke, something his superiors no doubt allowed or maybe even encouraged because it kept him frosty and a little more psychotic and brutal than might otherwise have been the case. But beneath the mask and the drugs and the errors of belief, he wasn't a fundamentally bad type, the prisoner judged. Not born that way, not like some were. He smiled. "There's hope for you yet, you know. Help is there if you choose to accept it."
This seemed to startle the young torturer into remembering his roll. "Come with me." He put his hand on the tazer holstered at his belt, for emphasis.
"Of course," said the man, as though assenting to a reasonable request.
The guard stepped out of the doorway, jerking his head down the corridor.
Together they proceeded to the end of the corridor, took an elevator, walked to the end of another hallway, another elevator, and into a wide, empty garage with stripes painted on the floor that were too narrow for cars but just right for lines of people. It was hard to tell in the dim flickering light of the ceiling's single fluorescent bulb, but the concrete at the head of the line seemed to be stained by something conspicuously dark and permanent.
A single man stood just outside the bulb's halo of thin light. The prisoner couldn't really tell, but in the shadows, if he looked around the man with his peripheral vision, he thought he saw a vaguely reptilian shape clutching the man's head.
The guard led him towards the illuminated patch. Or, rather, walked behind as the prisoner strode towards it, as fast as his weakened legs might carry him. "So this is it, then?" he asked, as he approached the man. If man he was.
"Shut him up," the man said, and stars exploded inside his head as the guard's fist came smashing into the back of his neck. "Speak when you're fucking spoken to. Shit, haven't you learned that much, yet?"
The prisoner rolled himself into a kneeling position on the ground, shins flat on the floor and forearms flat on his shins. Mouth closed, he looked up, regarding the man.
They stared in silence at one another for a few moments. The prisoner used the time to study the thing he could see pulsing, or perhaps scuttling was the better word, around the man's head. It seemed agitated, as though hungry and anticipating a meal. A mocking chuckle broke the silence. "You people. You all think you can't be broken. Everyone does, at first, but you guys...." he shook his head, pausing, and for a moment the kneeling prisoner saw the man's face illuminated in the flick of a lighter. It was the face of a vampire, drawn taut by its own evil. The thing above the man's head disappeared in the light; another might have taken it to mean it had been an illusion, but the prisoner took it as evidence for it's reality. "You guys," the man exhaled, "You're a real challenge."
The prisoner merely sat, awaiting whatever might come next.
"So I read your file, yeah?" The executioner said, "And apparently we caught you after you raided a work camp outside Chicago. Something like, what, a dozen of the ugly skanks got out, right? And among them was this pretty slut," he threw an 8 1/2 x 11 on the ground for his charge to look at. The woman who had during the heady days of the Revolution's beginning become his lover, not just of his body but of his soul, stared back at him, open eyes above a vacant mouth, slumped against a broken concrete wall with a bullet in her chest. "Got 'er!" The man said, with undisguised glee.
"Maria." It escaped his lips as a choking sob, the pain of it stabbing through his chest, piercing clean through to that core they'd been trying to reach so long. It was like white fire in his mind, the loss, not so much the thought that he would never see her alive again but that her own time on the planet had come to an end in such a brutal fashion. All the things that could have been but now never would spread out before him, and he let the grief choke him, swallow his being like a nuclear bomb at the back of his brain. For just an instant, deep inside, he ceased to be.
The instant faded. He came back to himself. Tears welled in his eyes, then spilled freely down his cheeks. He wept silently, letting himself free the pain, thinking all the while of his every moment with her, the joyful and the terrifying, the triumphant and the abject, the passionate and the tender. Their life together flashed before his eyes, and pain at the perceived theft was redirected into gratitude for every moment they'd had together. "Thank you," he whispered aloud, a short prayer to her departed soul accompanied by a blossom of love from the deepest part of his heart, and smiled even as tears streamed beside his lips.
Under other circumstances, he might have said more. This, however, was not the place; speech would indeed have been wasteful. There was no one to hear fine words who might appreciate them, and so language was best bypassed and thoughts composed of pure feeling offered in its stead, a prayer that emanated out of his heart into the ether, broadcast with all the force that could be drawn from the wound.
"'Thank you'", the executioner said, shaking his head. "You've gotta be fucking shitting me. Hey! Your girlfriend just died. We fucking shot her. Now she's dead. And you're fucking thanking us?" He walked over, sucking hard on the cigarette to get it good and hot and then jabbing it into the prisoner's ear with one deft twist of his hand.
He collapsed sideways, away from the raging burn inside his ear, allowing himself an animal scream that eased into a long, indrawn gasp. The cruelty seemed to calm the executioner down, and he squatted beside him, addressing him in a conversational tone, "You know, I wasn't just being idly offensive when I called her a slut. It's tragic, bro, really it is. You risk your neck for her, let yourself get captured by us, for Christ's sake, just to bust her ass out of some piddly little work camp. And do you know how long she waited before jumping another man's bones?" He leaned closer, and hissed. "Three weeks. Faithful of her, eh? So what do you got to say to that?"
Three weeks could be a lifetime when you lived as they did, thought the prisoner. She would have grieved in full within that period, with an intensity that gave the experience it's full due, and then she would have moved on, healed. There was no hope of his ever being busted out the way she had: it was one thing to raid a low-security work camp whose location was open knowledge, quite another to track down a man who'd taken so many flights to so many secret prisons even he had no idea what country he was in. She would have reconciled herself to the knowledge that he could not be saved, and done so as quickly as possible. He would have done the same, and he'd long since reconciled himself to the likliehood of her meeting and continuing through life with another man.
His gasping turned into a chuckle. "You know you've got a lizard sitting in your head with his tail wrapped around your soul-line, right?" The prisoner asked.
"A lizard?" the executioner said with convincing incredulous. ".... the fuck!? You are fucking crazy, man, you know that? Hey, sergeant, isn't this guy a nutjob?" He emphasized the final word, and an instant later the guard's steeltoe boot rammed into the prisoner's testicles, ending forever any chance of the man having children.
He doubled up, giving himself up again to the pain. Mastering it was easy by now; after what had just happened inside his head, staring at the corpse of the woman he'd given himself up to save, mere physical pain was like a house fly landing on his arm. He lay on his side, quickly letting the grunting subside into short breaths, and went on, "Of course, you wouldn't know that yourself. That part of you's hidden. It has to be, to stay in charge. You? The old you, the you on the outside that everyone sees? You're just a robot being run by a goddamn ugly reptile."
That earned him a kicking that cracked some ribs and bloodied his face, following which the guard grabbed him by his neck and hauled him to his knees again. The executioner was shaking his head, smirking. "Still think you can't be broken." There was an emptiness in the smirk, as though it were a parody of genuine emotion. No doubt the lizard pulling his strings was not amused.
"But you have broken me," the prisoner said. "You've broken me all the way through. Congratulations. The beatings are really quite unnecessary now." He paused, considering. "Of course you can continue if you want to. I can't stop you, after all."
"Enough of this shit." The executioner stepped in front of him, took a pistol from inside his jacket and cocked it. The prisoner could feel the dark presence flowing down the man's arm as though gathering to pounce from the end of the pistol. It paused there, hovering at the edge of visibility. So great was it's hunger, and it's desperation to inspire fear, that it was willing to expend a great deal more energy than it's skulking nature was usually willing to part with.
The prisoner watched it writhing on the end of a gun, like a flickering black cyst in reality, a hole sideways through space into a being whose stomach was the first gate of hell.
All the reptile needed to drag him into its awful mouth was to inspire a moment of real, over-powering fear. It was a predator of souls, with claws made of terror.
Few people were granted such a sight, not while still alive. The prisoner reflected upon this, the great privilege of it, and felt a warm throb of gratitude swell out from his heart as the muzzle was placed against his sweaty head. The being flowed over the barrel and slithered about his head, searching for purchase on his soul-line, and for one brief glorious instant his awareness expanded around him to encompass the entirety of the moment.
As the executioner's finger tightened on the trigger, the prisoner's eyes went up to meet his, the beginning's of a smile touching the edge of his lips. The fear seemed to rebound off that smile, echoing instead within the executioner's eyes. Which was absurd, of course, that he should feel the cold touch of his own proferred terror.
So it was with inner laughter that a sweeping and precise appreciation of the scene coalesced in his mind; the moment dilated, and for the first time he did not glimpse but saw the infinite within an infinitesimal span of time, and he....
His clothes fluttered to the ground, as a bullet ricocheted off the pavement behind where he'd just been and bounced around the garage. By some freak, it hit the solitary light bulb, which quickly flickered off as toxic fumes exhaled out of it and darkness engulfed the room.