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WHO’S WHO AGAIN?
Father, why are you keeping me alive?
A slap.
The masked men rarely talked to him, but he could tell from the shape of his body that this was someone new. The door had opened and a foot had appeared, before someone outside the room had reminded the person attached to it to change. In the haste, the crucifix had stayed over the shirt.
Something he hadn’t lacked in all these years was food and fresh air. Every couple of hours the window close to the roof opened wide from the outside. There was no angle where he saw anything else but the blue sky or the grey clouds. Never a star. Never the moon. Three meals a day and generic snack bars. No matter how bad the rest of the day was.
On days where the only form of torture was the solitary confinement he was subjected to, he was able to think a bit more coherently. Not that it helped. Paradoxically, the pain helped not to think about the fact that this was the life he was given and for some reason most of it would be inside this cell. Maybe even the rest of it.
So he noticed little changes. He now knew there were others — there were quite some trays. The guards stayed the same. There weren’t more than four that interacted with him. He recognized their steps like one did with loved ones. He told them apart from their gait. One of them liked to use him as a punching bag. One didn’t miss an opportunity to grab his crotch, not that there was ever any blood flowing there. Fed yes, healthy never. The other two resembled each other in their professional way of acting inside the cell and treating him, although one was more matter-of-fact and the other showed him the only kind of empathy directed at him by changing his pillow, making slightly bigger plates and manhandling him just a little less roughly.
I’m sorry, Zac, wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Just remember your position and talk when talked to. We wouldn’t want to, how should I say this… think as the last fourteen years as wasted. Catch my drift?
…
Good.
The prisoner was overwhelmed. By the amount of words he was hearing. By the fact that someone was actually talking to him gently. Slap aside. By the fact that he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t the result of his imagination playing games with him, again. He thought he had it under control now. His wife and kids hadn’t shown up in ages.
A sharp pain he had almost forgotten surprised him and made him flinch.
I can see that this is a lot for you. I understand. Some people would not have survived what you had to go through.
A small, suppressed voice inside of him, barely a whisper, told him what you made me go through. The prisoner didn’t hear that voice anymore. His survival instincts told him not to.
The priest took off his mask. He seemed to be in his seventies. A penetrating gaze made Zac want to look away, but he hadn’t seen a human face since he was imprisoned. He was hypnotized by the details of the other man’s face.
Look, Zac, you’re very important to us. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. Now comes the time where we need you. I know a mind like yours will choose change and activity over this cell. I also know that you will do exactly as told. Just nod if you agree.
…
Perfect. Some of the others unfortunately understood less well. Ah, values and principles, don’t I know all too well about them. Sometimes there’s just very little one can do to, let’s say, change someone’s mind.
…
Good thing you have a family, Zac, right?