His body had become a very efficient clock. It sensed tiny sounds in the walls and beyond his cell door. He always knew how long it would be before the next trip out to the chambers. Exhaustion and the need for shutdown took him. When he woke he saw the cold slop that was his food and knew he had less than four hours before the next appointment. Something had changed inside him and he tried to understand what it was.

      By refusing to cooperate, Mathias had chosen death. There was no cyanide capsule to give him his dignity, guard his secrets and end his pain. He would die their way. They would make it last as long as they believed there was still valuable information to glean from him. If he continued to tell them nothing they’d have that justification until he died. If they wanted, that final moment could be a year away. Longer if they gave him medical treatment between appointments. He’d be insane long before that, he knew, but it wouldn’t stop them destroying him at their own pace.

      In some private place, he’d kept a candle of hope burning quietly for Sunnie and the kids, that he would at least be allowed to see them again before he died. Allied to that hope was the possibility of revolution occurring outside and the State being overthrown. The dream of rescue.

      He tried not to look at his finger. His finger said it all.

      Mathias slumped back against the cell wall. It was over. There was no point trying to be courageous about it any more. He knew he wasn’t going to tell them anything now no matter what they did. He would go all the way with them to the end. He was not brave. He did not feel like the upholder of a cause. He merely felt doomed, his humanity wrested and obliterated by the Ministers of the State.

      He allowed himself the tears then, tears he’d held onto for the ninety-seven days of his incarceration. It was hard to release them quietly; he had to bury his face in his filthy blanket and press it hard onto the bunk. Every time he thought he’d cleared the sobs a new wave of grief would strike and he would lie back down on the boards to rock and tremble.

      Eventually, cleansed and drained by weeping, he sat upright on the edge of his bunk, crossed his legs and began to focus.

      here i am…nowww

      here i am…nowww

      here i am…nowww

      The pain in his left finger invaded like the instruments of the Ministers. It travelled up the outside of his arm, along the back of his triceps, across his shoulder blade and up into his neck and head. He focussed on the breathing with a clarity he had not achieved before and still the pain kept him from the moment. After half an hour he opened his eyes and his head sank to his chest in defeat.

      The pain worsened. It was all he could think about.