Its a funny thing about telling people you were held as a POW; they always seem to assume that every single day was torture and pain, that every hour was filled with new torments. And, yeah, okay, being shoved in a cell with three other guys in the sweltering heat, with nowhere near enough food or water, wondering the whole time what was about to happen next and if you were going to survive it? That's a torture all on its own.

And yeah, sure, some of the guards had a real sadistic streak. They'd laughed and grinned and joked amongst themselves while inflicting pain on their helpless prisoners. Others had only walked in once a day, stayed just long enough to drop that day's supplies to the dusty ground, then walked out again.

That split second, when the door creaked open and you didn't know who was going to walk it? Yeah, that could be seen as one hell of a clever bit of psychological torture. Fear would spike and adrenaline would ramp up, and aching, torn muscles would drag exhausted bodies to a state of excruciating tension.

The hardest part to deal with, bizarrely enough, was the one guard, just one, who would drop the food and water to the floor, then make eye contact with one or two of the prisoners.

"Tomorrow," he would say, a cold look in his eyes. "Wait until tomorrow." And his voice would be full of sick anticipation, a grin stretching his lips wide. Like he knew exactly what was in store, exactly how horrific it would be, exactly how agonising it would be.

He would come back the next day, peeking around the door and looking oh so pleased with himself when he saw everyone looking scared and sick. He would go through the same motions as the day before, carefully putting the supplies on the ground before locking eyes with someone.

"Things are being prepared." And the grin would spread, so wide, so smug. Predatory and twisted. "Tomorrow."

And he would make sure to slam the door open the next day, not quite laughing as he watched the prisoners all jump at the resounding bang that echoed off the stone walls, but taking in a deep breath, like he was scenting the terror that was hanging thick in the air.

"Nearly ready," and he would keep his eyes down this time. "Tomorrow."

And the worst part was that they all knew that he was full of it. That he was just enjoying himself, indulging whatever impulse his deranged mind was telling him would be fun. They would tell themselves, and each other, that they should just ignore him.

But there was always the chance that this time he really did know something. This time might be the time that he was telling the truth. This time his 'tomorrow' could actually be a warning and not a joke. And the longer it went on, the more days in a row he came in and smirked his way through his little game, the more likely it was that the next person through the door would be there to drag someone away. No matter how hard they tried, no one could fully dismiss his words.

Magnum would lay awake at night, straining his ears, trying to figure out if the noises he could hear meant guards were coming. If he could hear footsteps that meant that one of his brothers was about to be forced out of the room, leaving the rest of them to wonder if he would ever come back.

"Tomorrow," and the word seemed to ripple, take on form, and advance and menace the men in their cells.

"Tomorrow," and it would burn itself into the brain of every man listening.

"Tomorrow," and a shudder would run around the entire room.

When they finally came up with a workable escape plan, it seemed only fitting that they would whisper 'tomorrow' to each other to keep their spirits up. They took the favourite taunt of that pathetic, evil little man, the word that had lent itself to terror, and used it to signal freedom and hope.

Until the day came when they were actually ready to make a break for it. That day, when they started shaking from the intensity of the hunger cramps, and their vision was blurring, and their bodies were begging them to just please give up, and the word 'tomorrow', for those few hours, became a mantra.

Some nights, even after all the years that had passed, even after the therapy and the counseling, the word would suddenly ring out in the silence of the night. It would still make him sweat, make him tremble.

But, after a while, it would drop to the back of his mind. It would become the voices of his brothers. It would become a promise, rather than a threat.

Tomorrow would be a new day, one full of promise and hope.

And Magnum would sleep.