Don't Ever Forget
Just Holding Together
I roll over again and bite back a moan. The damage is worse this time, a mixture of screaming muscles, aching bruises, jagged scars and a broken arm. Broken in six places, no less. The bed itself is awful, no more than a camping roll mat on cement and a blanket that is more holes than material. I won’t be healing for a long, long time.
At least I didn’t tell them anything. That has to make it worth it, right?
Right?
Oh, I don’t know anymore. Everyday keeping myself sane gets harder and my lips get looser. It’s only a matter of time before I let something slip that betrays them all.
I’m all alone now. The last one left in a long line of prisoners in this place. I don’t know exactly where I am, where I’ve lived for the past year, but it’s somewhere in England. I only know that because I heard one snippet of a radio talk show when I regained consciousness that first time. I know why I’m here – because I’ve got information they want, whoever ‘they’ is. Information about different intelligence agencies around the world. Because I’m a mole.
I know who I am too. I think.
Before I was taken here I was Adelaide Lane, famous in all underworld circles, number one double agent. I was strong, physically and mentally, raven-haired and green-eyed.
Nowadays, the only thing that’s the same is my eye colour. My hair is gone, shaved off on the first day and kept that way. I’m stick thin now, can’t stand without help, not sure what’s real and what isn’t.
Sometimes I can barely remember my name.
Those are the days when I cling to fragile memories, better times, trying to hold myself together somehow. Those are the days when I remember what I was.
I hold on to faces, sayings, snatched words from conversations, places I’ve been, things I’ve done, people I’ve met and people I’ve loved. People I still love.
These are the things that give me strength; or, if not strength, something to delve into, to hide in until the next time I am rudely awoken. I have been stripped of my name, my life and my being, but they cannot take my memories. Those are mine, and I thank God that I have them.
Don’t ever forget your memories, cause in the end, they’re all you got.
At least I didn’t tell them anything. That has to make it worth it, right?
Right?
Oh, I don’t know anymore. Everyday keeping myself sane gets harder and my lips get looser. It’s only a matter of time before I let something slip that betrays them all.
I’m all alone now. The last one left in a long line of prisoners in this place. I don’t know exactly where I am, where I’ve lived for the past year, but it’s somewhere in England. I only know that because I heard one snippet of a radio talk show when I regained consciousness that first time. I know why I’m here – because I’ve got information they want, whoever ‘they’ is. Information about different intelligence agencies around the world. Because I’m a mole.
I know who I am too. I think.
Before I was taken here I was Adelaide Lane, famous in all underworld circles, number one double agent. I was strong, physically and mentally, raven-haired and green-eyed.
Nowadays, the only thing that’s the same is my eye colour. My hair is gone, shaved off on the first day and kept that way. I’m stick thin now, can’t stand without help, not sure what’s real and what isn’t.
Sometimes I can barely remember my name.
Those are the days when I cling to fragile memories, better times, trying to hold myself together somehow. Those are the days when I remember what I was.
I hold on to faces, sayings, snatched words from conversations, places I’ve been, things I’ve done, people I’ve met and people I’ve loved. People I still love.
These are the things that give me strength; or, if not strength, something to delve into, to hide in until the next time I am rudely awoken. I have been stripped of my name, my life and my being, but they cannot take my memories. Those are mine, and I thank God that I have them.
Don’t ever forget your memories, cause in the end, they’re all you got.