Forgotten (tar's version)

Reads: 278  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
a forgotten war, a forgotten soldier, a forgotten world

Submitted: November 30, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 30, 2007



The memory of the war, as well as the small country, had been long forgotten. A prisoner of war in an unknown country, the man had long been presumed dead. But, alas, he lay in the cold concrete room, half naked, no-one but the rats and the sound of dripping water there to keep him company. A single 40-watt bulb dangled from the ceiling, giving off just enough light to allow hima glimpse the rest of his small cell. In one corner, a small circular hole resided, just large enough for him to fit his head through. He had no reason to, of course, for the hole's sole purpose was to hold waste. He rarely ever used it anymore, though; he hardly ever received enough food to produce the smallest amount of by-products.
It had been a long while since he last remembered his name. Anyone he'd met while prisoner, if any, had called him scum. If not scum, then vermin, trash, or a word from their native tongue he could not understand. He had no friends, no loved ones, no companion whatsoever. On occasion a small fly would buzz in, or a lowly mouse would crawl by, and he spoke to them. He told them of his dreams, his hopes, his fears, but they never spoke back. The creature would stare at him with a look of what could be pity, and shortly after would continue on with their lives. They had lives, he did not.
It was hard for him to say which month had been the hardest; either because they were all hell, or he had lost the ability to track time, he did not know. Physically, he would have to say the first two were the roughest. When he had been captured, a bag which smelled of vomit and diarrhea had been placed over his head, and he had been brought here. He wasn't even sure where "here" was.
They had sat him in a cold, metal chair and removed the sack. Two soldiers had guarded the only door, and between them stood a terribly frightening man. He was a sickly thin person, but appeared to be able to hold his own in a fight. His jaw was a pointed one which seemed to be frozen in a permanent scowl. A thin mustache sat on his face, a slit in his otherwise creaseless physique; he walked over to the soldier.
He began speaking in his native language. The soldier started to explain he couldn't speak the tongue and received a harsh slap in the face. Apparently he was not allowed to talk. After about an hour of this routine, the man speaking and the soldier getting slapped, he was led into another room, a darker room.
They sat him down in a wooden chair and placed his feet in a bucket of water. The soldier was afraid he knew what they were planning. They brought out handle-looking devices with wires leading out of the ends. An electric buzz emanated from the handles, and it was what the soldier had feared; they were going to electrocute him. He frantically tried to escape, but the men had tied him down exceptionally well. He knew he wouldn't be able free himself; the rest of his life was going to be hell.

It was years since that incident and although he still had the scars to prove it, he had long since forgotten. So now he sits in his cell, clutching his half-size stomach until his next meal, knowing full well that the world has long since forgotten him.

copyright February 18, 2008

© Copyright 2018 TARxTHExWRITER. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:




More Historical Fiction Short Stories