Alex's Tears
There are many types of tears; I know them all.
The thick pure, almost condensed tears of rage.
The acute watering of the eyes that comes with white hot rage.
The sharp pinpricks of fear.
I can just remember the warm full tears that refresh the soul, that come from innocent joy and laughter.
Days of innocent, happy bliss with Jack and Ian...
But they are just a faint memory, echoes of a half recalled dream separated from my mind by twin barriers of time and bleak, harsh reality.
They are dead. I am not... yet.
The tears I know most intimately are the silent tears of shame.
Silent because I still have some pride left in my battered bruised body. When you have nothing left you cling to what little you have.
But also silent because if THEY hear, if they even know that I was crying it would be interpreted as weakness, or worse, resistance.
I could take the consequences, I think, but the others, the children they kidnapped along with me...
No, I will not inflict that on them. Even if they hate me and believe the worst, I won't betray them.
But one day I will not cry privately.
I will cry openly with pride, and scream and curse them and not care about the future or of consequences. And fight without caring until the end.
And they will be beautiful tears.
Of revenge, of justice. They are the same thing to me now. The barriers between black and white smeared into a grey mess inside my head. I try to tell myself that I did it for the best, that I'm not a monster. I know I'm lying to myself.
I will wait here in the dark and the cold and endure the pain and the evil things that pry in the night.
I will cling onto sanity with all my strength one more day, one more hour when I can so easily let go and fall into the forgiving embrace of madness.
I lost hope of escape after a few weeks. The hope of rescue was ripped from me a few months later. Then hope itself was stolen from me.
But I will wait: I will endure.
For those beautiful tears.
