The Devil Couldn't Break Me

by Laura Aslan

  I could make out the shape of the room. It was so very small and I could just about make out the form of a door as the feint chink of light shined through the cracks at either side. I cautiously stretched out my injured leg taking care that it didn’t touch the face of the woollen blanket. Before I could extend my leg fully it came into contact with a wall. I reached behind me into the darkness and my hand immediately touched the surface of the other wall. My God! The room was smaller than the length of my body. I began to panic. This wasn’t a room. It wasn’t even big enough to be a standard prison cell. Was it a tomb? Had I been buried alive? I jumped up quickly and reached for the ceiling. It was no more than three centimetres above my head. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I could stand. But my cell was tiny, not much bigger than a small broom cupboard. Surely they couldn’t keep me in here too long?

  I paced my cell out, three steps long by two paces wide and just enough height to stand and accommodate my one hundred and sixty centimetre frame. I ran towards the door screaming, banging on the door demanding to be let out. The claustrophobia was worse than any torture, worse than any beating I had experienced.

  I hammered on the door until my hands felt like pieces of frozen meat, until I could feel them no more and eventually I collapsed in a heap onto the blanket. I tried to listen between the tears but no one came. I listened for hours, listened for the sound of voices, of vibrations, perhaps a door closing in a distant part of the building but I heard nothing, it was as quiet as an empty Mosque.

  I lost all track of time as I cried for what seemed like hours but eventually the panic subsided and I lay in a semi-comatose state. I figured I was in some sort of cupboard with a reinforced steel door and I could now make out the shape of a boarded up grill in the door. I slept. I cried. I slept and cried and every now and again I banged on the door but still no one came.

  It’s impossible to gauge time when you have no watch and there is no natural light. The day time becomes night time because it is always dark. As much as I studied the walls and looked to see if there was any change in the light pattern they always looked the same. I started to count to sixty then one hundred and twenty and one eighty and mentally ticked of the minutes in my head calculating an hour and then counted those hours off on the fingers of my hand. As hard as I tried I couldn’t count more than three hours before I fell to sleep.

  Each time I awoke the blanket had stuck to my calf and I endured the agony of tearing my damaged flesh from the coarse wool. In the end I took to sleeping on my stomach, which seemed to work and eventually the wound dried. It was still painful to the touch, but bearable. I guessed from the condition of my wound that I had been there at least two days and still no one appeared.

  I dreamt that someone had entered my tomb. When I awoke the cell was filled with a beautiful aroma and as I made my way towards the door on my hands and knees I reached out cautiously as I followed my nose and found a bowl of hot soup, a chunk of bread and a bottle of water. I devoured it instantly. The soup was delicious, vegetable of some sort but quite the tastiest soup I had ever had. I realised just how hungry I was as I mopped it up with the dry bread. I even licked the bowl I was so hungry and dehydrated. Afterwards I drained every drop of the water from the bottle. It took no more than a minute and almost immediately I realised how silly that was. My belly was now full but uncomfortably so. I’d gorged myself without even thinking. I hadn’t heard or seen anyone come into my cell. When would they be back?

  Several hours later I got the urge to pee. I walked over to the door and started to bang. There was a small grill just above head height that had been blocked with a piece of wood and four vertical iron bars. I eased myself up by holding two of the bars and shouted for help through the crack in the wood. I didn’t expect to get an answer but within a minute I heard two voices on the other side of the door.

  “What do you want mother fucker?”

  It felt so good to hear human voices again even though I knew how menacing they were.

  “The toilet. I need to go to the toilet please.”

  “There’s a toilet in there.”

  “No there’s not,” I replied.

  “Yes there is, there’s one in every corner.”

  I heard the sound of the two men laughing and then the sound of their boots walking away on the stone floor. Eventually the sound faded into the distance.

  They were right, there was a toilet in every corner so I chose the corner nearest to the door, undid my jeans and peed. I was conscious that my urine ran out from under the gap in the door and outside into the room where the guard’s voices had come from. They would have to clean it up. Perhaps next time they would listen to me.

  Within a few days I realised that the food wasn’t so delicious, it was just that I had been so hungry. They brought me something generally twice a day, mostly the same sort of soup. It contained vegetables, usually carrots and potatoes with slices of onions and occasionally it smelled a little like chicken. The first time I smelled the soup I got quite excited and raked through it for the meat but found nothing. For several days I searched for that meat but then gave up realising that it was only the flavour of the powdered stock and not made from any real chicken after all.

  Sometimes they brought me bread and butter for breakfast, occasionally there would be a sachet of strawberry jam and that would be all they’d give me until suppertime when the soup would be brought into my cell again. They also brought me a bean broth, chicken flavoured soup filled with beans. My bean broth broke up the monotony of the other soup and I looked forward to it.

  But my food pattern was very irregular, some days they seemed to forget about me all together and I remember on one occasion going for two or three days without anything at all. The hunger pains were unbearable.

  I think the soldiers had been called away somewhere because during these days there was no sound of any kind anywhere in the building. I dragged my blanket over to the door and sat for hours trying to hear some sort of noise. All I heard was the wind and the rain outside. I convinced myself they had abandoned the building and I would slowly starve to death. That suited me fine, I wanted to die but I confess I was a little frightened thinking what starving to death would be like. I knew it would be a slow, painful process and I began to think of ways I could tear my blanket up into strips and hang myself. That would surely be a better way to go.

  Rats, Mice and Cockroaches and the Most Evil Animals on the Planet

  It didn’t take me long to figure out night and day. I remember being terrified at first as I heard the scuttling of the cockroaches on the far side of the cell but told myself as long as I heard them on the stone floor it meant they weren’t anywhere near my blanket. I remembered at school one day when my teacher set an exercise on nocturnal animals and insects and she told us that cockroaches were very much nocturnal creatures. Although I didn’t particularly like cockroaches I wasn’t petrified of insects in the same way some of my old friends from school were. I could handle the noises of the cockroaches easily enough. Rats and mice however were a different matter. They were my worst nightmare!

  So I started listening for the cockroaches, which was a kind of cue to try and go to sleep. This meant I could control my body clock once again and in a way it was strangely comforting that I could at least control something. I assumed because I would be awake during the day that I would be able to see who brought my food and water and I would be able to strike up a conversation with the guards asking them how long I would be there and when I would be going home. But this wasn’t always the case, the food was nearly always delivered while I was sleeping.

  After several days I really needed to go to the toilet and fought sleep late into the night until they brought in my food. I pleaded with the guards not to make me mess in my cell. Eventually they gave in and opened the door. One of the guards was dark with short hair and a stubbly unkempt beard. He had dark, alm
ost Arabic features, slightly overweight with a small button nose. His colleague was altogether much thinner with fair skin, they looked almost comical stood together. They both wore army uniforms and white training shoes.

  I walked through into the large room. I remember feeling so happy that it was light and at last I’d seen something different. I recall even smiling but my joy was short lived. The guards pointed to a small cubicle over the far side of the room and then told me that I was a demanding bitch and that they would beat me to the toilet and all the way back again.

  And they did. Before I could protest I was aware of a flailing arm flying through the air but I managed to duck just in time as it bounced fairly harmlessly off my shoulder. I then felt the sole of a boot in the small of my back and a slap across the head as I turned tail and ran as fast as I could towards they toilet. They chased after me laughing and squealing like two small children taking great delight in every blow they landed. It was all a game to them but I made it in one piece and bolted the door behind me. I sat on the toilet looking around. To my disappointment there were no other exits, no windows but to my relief there was toilet paper and a sink with some soap. I took my time and washed and thankfully the soldiers didn’t seem to mind how long I was in there. They knew I wasn’t going anywhere and I listened to their conversation as they talked about some sort of football tournament that was taking place on the other side of the world.

  When I came out they kicked and punched me all the way back to the cell but I ran fast and dodged most of the blows and congratulated myself on a small victory when I made it back and they closed the door behind me. I sat on my blanket breathing hard and for the first time in a long time, felt small beads of perspiration on my brow and yet I felt clean. In a perverse sort of way that’s all that seemed to matter to me.

  One of the soldiers shouted through the grill in the door.

  “Just so you know you Muslim bitch, that’s what happens every time you come out of there.”

  I turned towards the door in the blackness, my knees raised to my chin and I wondered if my eventful expedition to the toilet had been worth it.

  I began to experience amazing colours in the darkness. I could stare into the corner of my cell and see almost an explosion of shades of reds and yellows and bright purples. At times it seemed like the whole cell was on fire. The flames and spirals and lightning bolts and flashes mixed together and changed colour blending into each other. The purples turned to green then silver and gold and then bright, bright white and eventually back to purple again. It was like my own personal firework display, a huge kaleidoscope and if I concentrated really hard they were still there when I closed my eyes. The colours in the darkness were somehow comforting to me and I perfected the art so that they would come to me in seconds rather than the hour or two I’d had to stare into the blackness when it happened for the first time. Sometimes I would recall a classical piece of music and put the two together and it was so peaceful as I closed down my entire mind to the horrors around me. This was what it must be like to be on hallucinogenic drugs I thought to myself. Who needs drugs when you have the powers of the mind?

  I was back out in the main room a few days later having taken the decision to chance another beating. I only needed to pee and it would have been far easier to go in my cell but I was aware that I was growing more and more depressed sitting alone in the darkness and knew that even a few minutes viewing the change in surroundings always lifted my spirits a little even though it meant the chance of a pounding at the hands of my two sadistic guards.

  I had my plan ready. This time I would bolt out as soon as there was enough space but immediately drop to my hands and knees to try and take them by surprise. It worked well as I fooled them completely and they fell over themselves trying to reach me. I made it to the toilet very easily and even allowed myself a casual look back over my shoulder to watch them sprawling all over the floor as they cursed and bickered with each other, each one blaming the other for their inability to catch me.

  My joy was short lived. I turned on the light in the toilet and made my way over to the cubicle. The small brown field mouse was probably more shocked and more frightened than I was as it shot out from under the cubicle door in my direction. I shrieked at the top of my voice as I nearly took the toilet door from its hinges and shot past the startled guards before they had a chance to lay a hand on me. I heard them laughing as they no doubt spotted what it was that had given me such a fright. I was back in my cell quicker than I had managed before and slammed the door behind me. The guards came over to my cell taunting me that they had caught the little mouse and would be keeping it for a little fun at a later date.

  I didn’t sleep at all that night, convinced that the two evil creatures on the other side of the door would release the mouse into my cell as I slept.

  To Die or Not to Die; That is the Question

  As the weeks turned into months I’d lie on my blanket for hours hoping they’d come to get me and take me somewhere. I didn’t care where. They could come to execute me, they could come to question and interrogate me. I didn’t mind. Anything was better than the darkness and the sheer boredom. I couldn’t say at that point that I felt any fear, only the fear of the unknown and because I was never told what was going to happen it was impossible to feel real fear. Kupi was different. He had terrified me because Kupi told me everything that was going to happen to me and it was like something from a horror movie.

  The cell was freezing, we were in the mountains somewhere, I knew that and although it was springtime I knew how cold spring could be outside of the towns and villages. The cell was draughty, the wind whistled through the dilapidated farm building and cut under my cell door causing a vacuum and at times my teeth chattered for so long I’d convince myself that even if I did get out I’d do my teeth permanent damage. At times, generally in the early hours of the morning, the cold would wake me and it was nigh on impossible to get back to sleep.

  Apart from the cold, the boredom was the worst. The only thing to keep my mind occupied was my own imagination. The little decisions became the biggest part of my mind’s occupation. When the food and bread and water came I’d take an age to decide what went down my throat first. Some days it was the water, other days it was the soup, especially if it was warm. That would be a real treat. Some days I’d test myself to see how much dried bread I could eat before washing it down with the water or the soup. Everything became a game and I wondered at what point if I would start to lose my mind. Surely being kept in solitary confinement in constant darkness would make it only be a matter of time.

  Going to the toilet in the corner of my cell or running the gauntlet of fists and boots became another big daily decision and I learned to somehow limit my bowel movements. Most days I decided to pee in the cell, sometimes I felt brave and in need of a little exercise so I took them on. The punches and the kicks no longer hurt. They couldn’t possibly hurt me because there comes a time when you have been hit so many times it stops hurting. Parts of my face were almost numb, certainly my cheekbones and my lips, they were almost permanently swollen. I counted my blessings convincing myself that my swollen lips would at least protect my teeth.

  I’d listen at the door for the guards entering the room and I’d psyche myself up until the adrenalin was pumping around my body. The conversation was always the same... short.

  I’d bang on the door.

  “I need to go to the toilet,” I’d shout.

  “Are you sure?”

  It was the fair skinned soldier. He had a high-pitched squeaky voice and at times he sounded like an old woman.

  “Yes.”

  “You know what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  One of them would walk forward and unlock the door and they’d stand back to let me run out. It was a game for them and a game for me. I’d wait a few minutes in the hope I’d catch them off guard
and I’d sprint out and either turn quickly to my left or to my right depending where they stood, desperately trying to avoid the initial onslaught. Sometimes they’d miss me and it was an all-out sprint to get to the toilet first. Because of the condition I was in I’d invariably get hit or tripped before I reached the safety of the toilet door but now and again I’d make it without getting touched. They’d allow me up to fifteen minutes and I’d enjoy every delicious, peaceful second as I stripped off and washed but knew it would begin again as soon as I left the sanctity of the small W.C. It was all rather sad. They could have beaten me anywhere they liked, in my cell or in the toilet, but they never did. It was bizarre, the sadists unwritten rule that was never ever broken during the course of the six months. They were playing mind games with me and it was taking its toll.

  To be or not to be, that is the question. It was a quote from Hamlet and it came to me in the middle of the night as I listened to the cockroaches in the corner of my cell. I remembered studying Hamlet at school, remembered my teacher analysing the quote and discussing what it was all about. Hamlet was musing about the conundrum of suicide. It was a poignant subject to be thinking about in my present predicament. Hamlet wondered if it was a noble way out. He was unable to act upon his motives for revenge and it frustrated him. Was it better to suffer or better to end it all? Hamlet related his personal struggle to the struggles that all men suffer from at some point in their lives. But Hamlet didn’t know what happened after death so therefore realised that death wouldn’t be the ideal escape he craved.