Disclaimer: This is a short piece of creative writing that puts an emphasis on vivid descriptions and imagery. Enjoy!
I cannot take it any longer. Without any further thought, I creep into the dark, musty tunnel beneath my tiny bunk, leaving the depressing, dimly-lit prison cell behind me.
Heavy drops of water drip from above, splashing onto my tangled hair. My dirty, torn sneakers are barely holding together as I step forward carefully, avoiding the many puddles. My stolen flickering flashlight can barely illuminate the gloomy tunnel ahead, but I don’t need to see clearly to know that this tunnel is a sinister place. As I keep going, I run into cold, wet seaweed hanging from the ceiling. I step back, stagger and fall, cursing as the salty yet bitter taste of something splashes into my open mouth. Resisting to urge to spit and cough, I quickly shut my mouth, snuffing out any sound. I cannot be caught here. I must stay quiet. The seaweed dangling from above is like a trap, waiting to ensnare anyone that dares to pass through.
As I try to get up, my hand brushes against something unusually smooth. Using the flashlight, I recoil in horror at the sight of a human skull and scramble to my feet, breathing heavily. I use a jagged outcropping of rock to steady myself. Everything here seems to be covered in some type of algae, cold and wet to the touch, but the smell is even worse. Rotting sewer material and human bones are everywhere, and the stink of the ocean penetrates into every corner of the tunnel. I hate salt water. It brings back harsh thoughts of my capture and subsequent torture – memories that are more scarring than my physical wounds. Focus. I have to focus. Ignoring the disgusting feel of the rusty, discoloured railing, I pull myself up and keep trudging forward. When I look back, I can no longer see the light from where I entered the tunnel.
My flashlight battery dies abruptly and I am left in the dark, alone. My heart races in my chest and sweat trickles down my back, as I start to second-guess my decision. Only one captive has ever escaped from Krucerem and he was found dead a few weeks later, looking as if he’d been through a shredder. Stop thinking. I push that thought away and focus on escaping, step by step.
Wait… did I hear something? Turning swiftly, I snap my head back, but cannot see anything: it is pitch black. I’m sure it’s just my imagination and paranoia getting into my head. Yet a few steps later, I hear the same soft thump, as if someone were following me. Impossible, I tell myself. Nobody even knows I’m here, not even my closest friend in captivity, 2039-1A. I convince myself to ignore the suspicious sound and keep moving. With something resembling a sixth sense, I feel as if I’m now getting very close to the end of the musty tunnel.
I can see a speck of light and feel the glint of freedom when a muscular, burly arm wraps around my neck and squeezes. As I struggle uselessly, the sentinel speaks, in a low threatening voice that echoes through the tunnel.
“Choose your punishment. Death or death.”
