Volya
09-27-2012, 04:12 PM
I am Francis Portugues, a Spanish soldier. I was part of the Navy, working on one of the finest ships in the water. But when we were out on a skirmishing run we were surrounded by British ships. Our ship was blown to pieces, but a few of us survived the explosion. We were picked up by the British navy, and sent to a war prison somewhere in the British Isles. I’m not sure where my comrades are now, they may have died in the cells, or they might still be alive somewhere in this place, suffering just as I am. There is only one thing I know, and that is that we were all sentenced to death and today is the day of my execution.
But I’m not frightened. If anything I’m excited, almost looking forward to this moment, because in addition to being my death-day, it’s the only day I have a chance of escaping. This is the last time I’ll have to sit in this dark, grimy cell. The sound of the guards footsteps approaches from down the alley; they’re here to take me to my death. They stop outside my cell and unlock the rusty iron door. I shakily get to my feet, and lurch towards them, offering my wrists. They clamp the irons round my arms, the cold metal digging into my flesh. The other prisoners are yelling and shouting at the guards, jangling their chains. The noise is deafening, but the guards ignore it, their faces are stony and emotionless. As we walk down the corridor, my senses seem to be heightened. I can hear the water dripping onto the flagstones; I can smell the stench of the unwashed prisoners. I can see the doors in the distance; one leads up, the other leads down. One to life, one to death. If I wait any longer, my chance will be gone.
I must act quickly.
I wrestle free from the guards grip and burst through one of the doors, their angry shouts behind me echo and bounce against the cold walls. But I do not stop. I keep running up the steps, wet and slippery from the rain. If I fall now, they will catch me. I can feel my heart racing as each step brings me closer to my goal. I can sense that I’m almost at the top. I barge through the door at the top, then skid to a sudden halt. I’m at the edge. I look down, but can see nothing. The water below is concealed by a bank of fog so thick that I cannot even hear the waves crashing against the shore. The strong wind pushes against me, and I realize this is the first time I’ve been outside for 30 years. I hear movement behind me and I turn around. The guards are here, at least ten of them. I’m surrounded. I take a step backwards towards the edge. One of the guards lunges towards me, and almost manages to grab my shirt. But he isn’t fast enough, and I step off the edge, heading to what the guards think is certain death.
The wind whistles past my head as I plummet off the tower. I hit the freezing water and go under. The weight of the handcuffs threatens to drag me down into the icy darkness below, but I kick out fiercely and resurface, breaking free of the oceans cruel grip. The waves are huge and each one threatens to knock me back under the water. But despite the stormy ocean waves, I still manage to draw closer to the shore. Under the cover of the fog, I get washed up onto the rocky beach of the island and left there in a wet heap along with other debris the ocean has washed up over the years.
I eventually get to my feet and slowly stumble across the pebbly beach, the sharp rocks biting into my bare feet. I make my way over to a rocky outcrop, and take shelter underneath it just as it starts to rain. The light shower quickly becomes a torrential downpour, and the sound of the rain drumming against the rocks is deafening. If I’m lucky the rain will help to hide me from the guards. I have to hope that the guards will assume I’m dead; if they send out a search party I don’t think I’ll have the strength to resist. I sit there in the cold, bitter darkness, waiting for a boat to carry me home.
But I’m not frightened. If anything I’m excited, almost looking forward to this moment, because in addition to being my death-day, it’s the only day I have a chance of escaping. This is the last time I’ll have to sit in this dark, grimy cell. The sound of the guards footsteps approaches from down the alley; they’re here to take me to my death. They stop outside my cell and unlock the rusty iron door. I shakily get to my feet, and lurch towards them, offering my wrists. They clamp the irons round my arms, the cold metal digging into my flesh. The other prisoners are yelling and shouting at the guards, jangling their chains. The noise is deafening, but the guards ignore it, their faces are stony and emotionless. As we walk down the corridor, my senses seem to be heightened. I can hear the water dripping onto the flagstones; I can smell the stench of the unwashed prisoners. I can see the doors in the distance; one leads up, the other leads down. One to life, one to death. If I wait any longer, my chance will be gone.
I must act quickly.
I wrestle free from the guards grip and burst through one of the doors, their angry shouts behind me echo and bounce against the cold walls. But I do not stop. I keep running up the steps, wet and slippery from the rain. If I fall now, they will catch me. I can feel my heart racing as each step brings me closer to my goal. I can sense that I’m almost at the top. I barge through the door at the top, then skid to a sudden halt. I’m at the edge. I look down, but can see nothing. The water below is concealed by a bank of fog so thick that I cannot even hear the waves crashing against the shore. The strong wind pushes against me, and I realize this is the first time I’ve been outside for 30 years. I hear movement behind me and I turn around. The guards are here, at least ten of them. I’m surrounded. I take a step backwards towards the edge. One of the guards lunges towards me, and almost manages to grab my shirt. But he isn’t fast enough, and I step off the edge, heading to what the guards think is certain death.
The wind whistles past my head as I plummet off the tower. I hit the freezing water and go under. The weight of the handcuffs threatens to drag me down into the icy darkness below, but I kick out fiercely and resurface, breaking free of the oceans cruel grip. The waves are huge and each one threatens to knock me back under the water. But despite the stormy ocean waves, I still manage to draw closer to the shore. Under the cover of the fog, I get washed up onto the rocky beach of the island and left there in a wet heap along with other debris the ocean has washed up over the years.
I eventually get to my feet and slowly stumble across the pebbly beach, the sharp rocks biting into my bare feet. I make my way over to a rocky outcrop, and take shelter underneath it just as it starts to rain. The light shower quickly becomes a torrential downpour, and the sound of the rain drumming against the rocks is deafening. If I’m lucky the rain will help to hide me from the guards. I have to hope that the guards will assume I’m dead; if they send out a search party I don’t think I’ll have the strength to resist. I sit there in the cold, bitter darkness, waiting for a boat to carry me home.