Time To Go

We shared an alcove in a dark and dingy cell. Well, dungeon I would call it really. It was packed with captive souls. The guards cared nothing for the Geneva Convention - only to be expected from a rogue rebel government that had shattered the soul of a peace loving nation.

When my captors had finished brutalising me and thrown me into the dungeon, Amos was the only person to help me. He carried my broken body to his alcove, shared some of his water and bread, tended my wounds as best he could.

I had no idea what language he was speaking but it was a kindly tone that made me feel protected. As days and weeks passed, we bonded over shared adversity. We communicated through sketches drawn with sticks in the dust and dirt of the dungeon floor. Through this I was able to make out that he had a wife and two young children. His own parents had been killed in the uprising, too old and frail to escape the rebels who invaded their village. I, likewise, drew out my life on the dungeon floor. Amos showed that he was grateful that I, as a foreigner, had come to help his country restore peace. Now he was my saviour in this hell hole.

It happened unexpectedly. Amos and I were selected for an outside work detail. Hard labour digging a deep trench, but it was sweet to smell the outside world again and breathe fresh air. When the guard decided we had done enough, he signalled us to put the spades down and stand still. A squad of soldiers arrived to escort us back to the dungeon. But wait, I looked at Amos and he looked back at me. Slowly we each stretched an arm out until we gripped each other's hand. I heard the order being given to the firing squad: 'Ready! Aim.!.......' That's all I heard.