I hate prison. I've been behind bars many times in my 33 years. My first stint was even before adulthood, when I served time in juvie. Actually I was in juvie no less than 3 times. I probably would have ended up a career criminal if not for Erwin, who dragged my sorry ass out of there and into military school. I was a junior cadet by the age of 15, and from there on out it was a military life for me.

But that's a story for another time. Prison. Ah, yes, this dull fucking cell that keeps making my mind turn in circles.

They were keeping me here for a few reasons. First, I came into this country under false pretences, and they fucking hate that shit. Second, they knew that I was in the know for some information regarding the whereabouts of Ambassador Reiss, and were determined to get it out of me. And last, they thought that they could use me to ransom back to Canada and maybe even get something out of it, whether it was money or a prisoner exchange.

Little did they know, Canada had to disavow knowledge of my activities. As far as they were officially concerned, I could die here in this cell.

It's what I signed up for, it's not like I didn't know this was possible. But it's one thing to know it on paper, and another thing to be sitting in a cell day in and day out, and know that no one is coming for you. At least, no one on a sanctioned mission.

I couldn't even count the days properly, since there was no window letting in daylight, and I really couldn't tell the passing of one day into , they came to feed me. Sometimes, they dragged me off to an interrogation cell and beat the crap out of me. Or drowned was a new one, and I was pretty sure that was against the UN's Geneva Convention - but tell them that, I'm sure they'll laugh in your face. Just like the US did with their treatment of prisoners in Gitmo. Or Abu Graib for that matter. Or anyone anywhere in the world who thought no one was looking. No peeking, no peeking, let's just torture until they find us out!

I'm one of these people who just irritates the fuck out of a torturer. When it comes to physical pain, I'm really, really good at ignoring the pains in my body, and letting my mind drift somewhere else. I'll feel the injuries later, sure, and there are certain types of pain that you can't compartmentalize like that, but for the whole, I'm about as satisfying as beating a dead horse.

Then when it comes to mental torture, this is one of the things I'm known for back home. They train cadets off watching me, because I'll fuck around with the torturer until they're so turned around they don't know which way is up. I'll speak in French for days on end and insist I don't speak any English. Then I'll switch into English and swear I don't speak a word of French. I'll tell them I'm not Canadian, I'll pretend to be from France, then from England. I'll have entire back stories made up about family going back 5 generations in countries I've never set foot in. I'll describe to exacting detail the cafe on the corner that I've never visited, and I'll make you believe you've even been there yourself.

In short, I'm one annoying little fuck.

I've even had some torturers in the past that have chucked me back out on the street out of sheer exasperation, when they know they won't ever get anything out of me, and they know the government couldn't give a damn. But this time, no, this time I've been here a long time, I can feel it. And they don't seem to be letting up on me at all.

My mind keeps circling back to the idea of there being a mole, someone compromising us from the inside out. Who could be working against us, and why? Why would they even care? And what could possibly connect all our recent missions, from Mali, to Zimbabwe, to Syria? They were all different missions, different dictators, different diplomats. The only thing connecting them all, that I could see, was us.

Maybe their goal in keeping me here wasn't even about Mali itself at all. Maybe what they really wanted out of me was intel on my team. Maybe that's why they kept going back and trying to figure out where I came from.

—

The worst part of being kept in jail for unspecified periods of time is the uncleanliness of it all. We don't even get showers more than a couple of times a week. We're sleeping on filthy cots, sharing common restrooms that clearly haven't been sanitized in years, and working out in the same practice yard, that doubles as a gang meeting place.

It's a miracle anyone survives any length of time at all, in jail. We could die from disease, we could die from killing each other, we could die from eating this goddamned gross food. But somehow, we clung on.

I didn't even have any jail buddies, as they kept me in isolation almost all the time. The only time I saw other inmates was during our hour of exercise, but even then they all avoided me. I couldn't really give a fuck, so I didn't discourage them from keeping their distance.

I was kind of disgusted with myself, because I hadn't been able to come up with a suitable plan to break out of this joint. I hadn't even been able to get a fix on the guard rotation, as they seemed to be keeping it pretty randomized. There were no weaknesses in the fences, and my room was underground, so it was hard for me to see what was going on outside my small space in the world.

I knew Erwin wouldn't come for me. He'd try, of course. He'd return to Canada and he'd press my case to Colonel Pixis, but there would have to be a pretty damn good reason to expend valuable human resources on the retrieval of a single unit. I may be special forces' strongest soldier, but if I was captured, I was as good as dead to them, anyway.

No, I couldn't rely on Erwin. I couldn't rely on myself.

Was I doomed to stay here forever?

Or somewhere, dare I kindle a spark of hope inside me that someone would care enough to plead my case to the government, and pressure them for my retrieval?

Maybe I should just get used to being dirty, and eating prison food for the rest of my life.

—

There was this guy, who was built like a fucking mountain, who looked like he pretty much ran the place. He'd go up and down the cells, rapping his machete on the bars, just to rattle us. I didn't know his real name, so I called him Big Fuck in my head.

Then he had this little shrimpy guy who was always tagging along behind him like a chihuahua. I called him Shrimpy.

So Big Fuck and Shrimpy liked to check up on us, and push our buttons. Me, in particular. I think Big Fuck took it as a personal affront that he couldn't break me. So he liked to keep trying.

One of these days, which by now were just blending one into the other, Big Fuck and Shrimpy came to drag me off to the Fun Place, as I liked to call the torture room in my head. You might wonder why I called it the Fun Place - cause I sure as shit wasn't having any fun there - but Big Fuck was Big Fuck's goddamned play room, and we all knew it.

Today, Big Fuck decided he wanted to try to drown me. Of all of them, this is my least favourite torture technique. Wonder why? Cause it's hard to go inside yourself and ignore. Pain, you can take yourself away to another place, almost float on top of it. But choking? Not so much. Choking is one of those things that intrinsically has you feeling desperate, and you have to push past the desperation to try to stay sane.

Big Fuck always spoke to me in French, but I'll translate it here for those of you who don't speak it. Today, he grabbed me by the hair, and dragged me in to the room and shoved me down on my knees.

I looked down at myself in disgust. I was still wearing the same clothes I'd worn in here - a pair of beige pants, a white shirt, and a pair of now, everything was brown, black, and red, encrusted with dried mud and bits of blood.

I would, quite literally, kill someone to clean my clothes.

So I wasn't as pissed as I'd normally be to get my knees dirty, because, hell, they were dirty right through already.

"So, where you claim to come from today, hmm?"

"Your mother's cunt," I said, spitting towards Shrimpy, who ducked away.

This made Big Fuck laugh, long and hard, before he punched me square in the face. "Think you're funny, little man?"

I looked up at him. "I don't think anything about this is funny. Like I've told you before, whoever you think I am, you've got the wrong man."

"Ah ah ah," Big Fuck said, waving his finger in my face. I was fascinated by how his skin could be so dark that it shone like obsidian, but the underside of his finger was so light. One of nature's mysteries. "I don't think so," he said with a toothy grin.

"Well then why don't you tell me what it is that you want to hear, so that I can squeal like a girl and get this over with?" I demanded.

"Tell me where is Reiss."

I rolled my eyes. "I. Don't. Know."

He brought over this bucket of water, which I swear to shit wasn't clean, god knows what kind of bacteria were floating around in it, and now I really started to fight. No fucking way was my face going in there.

He jammed his hand down on the back of my head, and even though I struggled, he more than doubled my weight. Without a weapon I was pretty useless.

I choked, and coughed, and panicked. I'll admit it, this was the first time I really fucking panicked in the month? or however long I'd been there. I struggled and that just shoved the water further down my throat, and I didn't want to swallow it, God, no.

Finally he let me up, and I retched, and retched. I vomited up all the water I'd inhaled, then lay there on my side, and begged him, "Please, please don't do that again."

He tapped my cheek with the rusted blade of his machete. "Then tell me where Reiss is."

"Don't you know? He's long gone by now. It's too late."

Even though I was telling the truth, Big Fuck either didn't believe me or didn't care. He dunked me, again and again, until I had thrown up so many times I didn't think I'd ever swallow properly again in my life.

I hate prison.

—

After that, I sort of lost my confidence. I got dysentery, and soiled myself in spite of my best efforts not to. I lost all my pride. I even ended up losing my clothes, because I decided it was better to huddle there nude in the thin blanket I had than to wrap my limbs in the soiled clothes.

I lost myself. I retreated into my mind - it was the only way I could function. I couldn't bear to be out there in my body, in this place.

Even Big Fuck decided to leave me alone. Small mercies.

When I heard a commotion in the cells outside, I couldn't even stir myself enough to respond. I just figured it was the usual - prisoner freak out, wailing relative, or some such.

Then I heard whispers. "Levi? Levi!"

Oh fuck, I thought, now I'm really going crazy. I'm hearing people whispering in my fucking mind.

I've lost it.

But I could swear, I recognize that voice…