With the barrel of a rifle pointed on my spinal I trudged towards a mass grave where I would meet my certain death. The dirt under my feet was muddy and when I would step on shingles bottom of my feet would hurt. Nonetheless, to a certain degree, all of this seemed comforting. Because, while I was being held captive and suffered through enhanced interrogation methods, I wasn't sure if I was turning crazy. So when I heard rain drops falling upon the roof out of corrugated iron – which was the roof of the facility where I was being held captive – I wasn't sure if I was simply imagining these sounds or if they were actually real. But walking through the mud now I was confronted with a feeling of ease. That was because I now knew that I hadn't truned crazy, and that also meant, that they weren't able to break me. No matter how much water they poured over me, while trying to give me the feeling of suffocating. No matter how many fingernails they brutally ripped out of my flesh. No matter how long they made me suffer on the rack. Fact is, that they were never able to make me submit. My body might have been broken, but my mind wasn't.
Standing affront of the mass grave, I was able to look down upon my dead comrades. They had fought this honourably until they were freed by death. And while death might not smell pleasent, the idea os dying didn't make me fall in fear. Instead, it gave me the feeling of liberation. So I kneeled affront of my comrades, whose fate I would soon follow and I said, „This ain't that bad." And while I said that, my pants were starting to soak in mud. With the sound of a bullet penetrating my neck, my life had come to an end, and the gates to either heaven or hell were waiting.
So I would climb the starewell through darkness, and await what would be to come.