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Finn didn't know how long he'd been here, having lost track of time long ago. He'd tried, really tried, to keep track. But the days blended together, and the small window didn't give him much of a clue as to when there was sunlight and not. The pain had blended together as well. At least he wasn't tied to a chair today. Or hung from ropes. No, he was left in what he considered his prison cell, because that's what it was. How long had it been? He wanted to know, but the only people who came into the cell were his captors to either torture him some more or to give him small rations of food.
Her photo had really been worn away, had blood-stains on it from his hands. She was what kept him going. He had promised her he'd come home, and he wasn't about to break the promise. If it wasn't for Rachel, he really would have given up long ago. But he had something to go back to.
He assumed it was a wife who would come down to give him his food. Occasionally, she would cut his hair to keep it shorter. It was always choppy. And he assumed it was the malnutrition that made it where his beard had stopped growing. When he looked down at himself, he couldn't recognize his body. His ribs were clearly visible, bruises and cuts and scars littered his skin. He'd recently gotten an infection in one of the wounds on his shoulder which had continued to progress. It wasn't like he could have done anything about it.
He couldn't stand on his own. Upon his capture, one of his ankles had been broken and had never healed right. Sleep deprived and hungry, beaten and tortured, he wanted to give up every day.
There were some days he thought he could hear her voice in his head. He could hear her singing. He'd hummed once. Once. That had resulted in more punishment. What had he done to deserve this? What had he done in a past life? He'd asked himself that once before all this happened, when he found out he was being deployed. He regretted every decision to join the army. He should have just gone to New York with her.
There was yelling coming from nearby, which wasn't uncommon. He didn't move from his spot on the floor of the corner of the small room. But then came the gunfire, which was. He wished the pain would go away as he listened, long giving up hope of being found, despite continuing to hold on for her. This wasn't a rescue team, this was just another battle raging outside.
When the door slammed open and he looked at the gun before the uniform, he wanted to cry. Familiar camouflage covered the soldier.
"Who are you?" the man yelled, pointing the gun at Finn.
"Private…" He cleared his throat. He hadn't really talked much, the only sounds coming from him had typically been pleading and screaming and crying. "Private Finn Hudson." The look of surprise on the man's face was more of a shock to Finn. "I'm Private Finn Hudson," he said again.
The other man lowered his weapon, walking over to Finn as he heard the rest of the platoon clear the building before making their way down the stairs. "Sir, you'll want to see this," he told someone as they walked through the group who were guarding the door to ensure no further attacks.
"What's your name son?" the older man asked, kneeling down to the level of Finn.
"Private Finn Hudson, sir," he said weakly, voice scratchy. The older man gave a look of confusion and surprise as well. Why was everyone so surprised to see him? It hadn't been that long had it?
"Finn Hudson, let's get you home, Son," he said, motioning for the others to help him get Finn on his feet. "How well do you think you can walk?"
"I...Not well," he answered. "My ankle was broken during capture." His voice sounded so much more different than he'd remembered. The man nodded as he and two other men helped Finn up, not able to put any weight on that foot. The sun blinded him as they went outside, much hotter than he remembered. But he was free.