He tossed and turned, hoping to settle himself comfortably. Well... for all that he could. Whatever he did, whatever he tried – and he smiled bitterly at his paltry attempts – there was little chance that he could manage to get out of this trap on his own. Nor any chance that anyone could come and rescue him.
They hadn't bothered to bind him. What was the use, anyway? He was, (so to speak,) canned. Really canned in this container, this very unusual cell. « Terrifying » was the right term for it. He took up almost of its length and its width. The cell was low-ceilinged, so that he could only stay laid down. It was... a can. A pitch-black can.
He lay in utter darkness; he was blind. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't smell anything. He couldn't... But he didn't let himself think about it any longer.
His hand slid down his chest. And that was another amazing thing. He knew for sure that he hadn't been dressed like that in the Thrush clandestine lab. As far as he could judge, he wore a shirt, a tie, and what felt like a suit. Hardly practical.
This cramped cell was designed to frighten the prisoner, to throw him into utter panic. Aside from that, he had to admit it, he hadn't been tormented. No torture. He hadn't been beaten. At least, he didn't remember any beatings. No memory, and no marks. He didn't feel bad. Not the slightest pain. It didn't really please him, anyway, because that was quite unusual, too.
Waiting was all he had left. At a certain point they would take him out of this place. Not his friends. The others. They would interrogate him, at last. Or again; he didn't know. And they would shoot him, finally. But, and he smiled at the stimulating thought, he wasn't going to make matters easier. Even in the weakened state he was, he would sell his life dearly, when they took him out. If they took him out.
He had shouted. He had yelled. He had struggled like the very devil. He had torn his nails, broken his knuckles.. he had done it. Because it was what he had to do. What he should have done. He moved each fingers of his hands, slowly, tentatively, and felt no pain. Not the slightest discomfort.
For a long time, he had hated to be locked up. He had managed, more or less, to overcome this shortcoming. This absurd weakness. No one – well, one - had any idea how much he hated that.
But he was on the edge of giving in. He had fought to the bitter end, but he was alone. Alone, lost in this almost tangible darkness, in this total silence. He was powerless. And this cell, this « can », felt like a coffin.
And... what if they left him there? No food. No water...
However, he was neither hungry, nor thirsty, though he couldn't remember his last lunch. He sneered. He couldn't even remember when he was incarcerated there...
Air... He took a deep breath.
He had tried. He should have.
Total panic overwhelmed. He hit the ceiling as hard as he could. He was about to tear his nails, to break his knuckles, his knees. He shouted, he yelled, he screamed.
In silence. The most terrifying, utter silence.
Reaching the end of all his resources, he burst into tears. But he had no tears.
They had dressed him.
They hadn't beaten, tortured, questioned him.
They hadn't given him food or water.
They hadn't locked him up.
He had read some heartbreaking stories; coffins scratched by the nails of those who had been buried alive.
His coffin wouldn't be scratched.
They had buried him. He no longer was alive.
They had honored his memory, probably. Perhaps, some of them had mourned for him.
And now, they had forgotten him.
So, that was Dante's Inferno... The torment caused by your deepest fears, the most visceral fears. The fears that eventually killed you, because death was the only way out.
A merciless punishment.
A endless torment. No way out.
Because you are dead.
You are not cold. You are not hungry. You are not thirsty. You are not in pain.
You don't know since when you have been here.
Time... Time?
Since one day? One year? One century?
And you can't even cry your heart out...
-Doctor! Doctor!
-Yes, Mr Solo?
-Come on, look!
-I don't see anything, Mr Solo. I am sorry. It's about one month, and... Hells bells!
A tear. Running down the white, emaciated cheek. One tear. But a tear.
-He cries, Doctor. It means something! He... He is coming back!
-Perhaps. I don't know.
-Illya... Illya! Open your eyes!