John sat in his cell, the plank they called a bed beneith him. He sighed with his head resting against the cold sement and stone wall. Three walls and one barred door. So simple but yet, how they drove him mad. John's breaths grew more shallow as the darkness around him closed in. The black abyss seeming to feed of his anguish. The dried blood, dirt and any other manner of scum, encrusted upon his head and body wasn't the worst of it. He could feel the lice wriggling about in his clothes. Tattered and scathed as they were. Even in the light, which was rare, he couldn't tell where the bites ended and the rest of him began. As he took a deep breathe in something that had been floating about in the air caught in his throught. He hunched over coughing up a mixture of what was left of his blood, and saliva. Onto the cracked sement floor that had more excrament from rats and prisoners alike on it then their was visable floor. He heard footsteps. Pulling himself up slowly he stopped coughing. The heavy steps drew closer and closer with momentary pauses among them. The door of his cell was opened with a pained creek escaping its rusted hinges. Briefly a light shown and a bowl of slop was handed to him. John didn't look down becuase even in the darkness he knew their were things in that bowl more alive then he. He choked down what he could, gaging on things that crunched. When things just weren't supposed to crunch. Another prisoner told him he would get used to it, two months later he still wasn't. Of course the other man, who's name escaped him, had problly been here since the war started. Although names didn't matter here, it still vexed him that he could not rember the man's name. He hadn't seen the man since that one encounter though. It dawned on him, however, that the man was dead. People just didn't last in here. But the ones who died soon were lucky. Not even the deepest pit of hell could come close to this unsufferable 'camp'. A fresh wave of despair washed over John and he let the bowl slip from his hands. Unable to stomach another bite. What would he do now? The bowl hit the floor with a dull unspirited thud. The mush splattering about the floor. He cringed as he felt rats scuttle over his feet to the mess he was half blind to. Perhaps though, it was better he could only see part of the filth around him. He layed down on the plank of wood now, huddling himself. The only pathetic form of qwarmth and comfort he could salvage from the wreckage of his current state. The skies over-head along with the ground rummbled with the eminating threat of bombs moving closer. A final thought ran through his head, 'Mayb we'll all get lucky and they'll hit us. Put us out of our misery......'. Finally sleep settled over him, unsettling and unpeaceful. He woke with the first red streaks of dawn showing. One of the first to rise in this hell hole. He looked about the floor of his cell noting how the bowl of slop from the night before was completely gone. The only remnants of the night before were the bowl and a small dried puddle of blood. John stood up and began searching around his room. He'd made his decision now, subconciouly thinking he was underming the enemy. Finally he found what he was looking for, a small shard of metal. He smiled and made his way back to the wood. Sitting in an extacy only few others would understand. He held his left arm out in front of him. His smile widened as the metal cut into his skin, finnishing with the left, carful not to sever his tendons he moved on to his right wrist. This time the cut wasn't as smooth but it was effective. He laughed as his life poured out of him and a bright warmth began to surround him. The calming rustle of wings and beautiful faces engolfing him. His spirit rose with the divine messengers and he finally felt his first taste of freedom in such a long time.