Captive

Contrary to popular belief, protocols are the first thing that comes to your mind as a military captive, not your loved ones, but self-preservation, your survival instinct, and all those months of training you go through before being sent to a war zone.

My head was throbbing and I couldn’t control the ringing in my ears. My mouth tasted of blood and dirt. My eyes felt heavy, so heavy that I was struggling to open them. The last thing I remember was a deafening sound of what I could only assume was an explosion.

Where am I? What’s that loud banging?

I could hear the echoes of someone asking me to wake up; his voice resonated painfully in my ears. The second I felt a hand on my shoulder, adrenaline kicked in and I blindly elbowed the person touching me.

I was sore but managed to sit up to take in my surroundings. It was obscure; I couldn’t see anything but the large silhouette of the man who poked me. He took a few steps back and started pacing and banging at a steel door with frustration, saying something I couldn’t register with my pounding headache.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I finally heard the stranger say once he stopped kicking at the door.

“Who are you? And where the hell am I?” I asked as my eyes started adjusting to the darkness.

“We’re in some sort of prison. I have no idea where. No one has shown up ever since they locked us up in here. You’ve been unconscious ever since I saw you,” the man said, the distress in his voice contrasted his hulking form.

I could barely make his features, but I a sense of familiarity hit me. He was likely one of our soldiers. He didn’t seem to be wearing a uniform though.

“Who locked us up?” I asked, though deep down, and having been in this country for the past three years, I had an inkling.

“I don’t know. I woke up in a vehicle. My face covered with a bag, I couldn’t see anything,” he said then winced while sitting on the floor near me.

“I heard men talk but I didn’t understand their language. That’s all I know,” the man spoke with his head resting against the wall.

I gulped as the reality of the situation dawned on me. I was a captive in some prison, in some desert. I could easily tell from the cold dry wind coming from the smallest window known to mankind.

I once heard stories from a soldier who’s been a captive. He said it was crueler than death. He was a man. What would happen to a woman? Was that it? Will I be tortured in the worst imaginable ways? I’d rather die than let anyone touch me. Burying my face in my hands, I tried to stifle my tears.

I tensed up when I felt a hand on my shoulder once again. Only this time, his touch was gentler. In the moonlight, I focused on the features of my cellmate who now appeared harmless; I noticed a streak of blood shining on his otherwise flawless skin. I knew that face. I wouldn’t be a true Canadian if I didn’t. How did I end up kidnapped and imprisoned? And why was Sidney Crosby there?

Notes

Here's my new story! I've had this idea for a while. I even wrote a few chapters a while back :)

It will touch on subjects that many of us can relate to. I hope you enjoy reading it. I'm definitely having fun writing it :)

Charlie