The buildings were full of pain, groans and screams echoing out like an ugly symphony, one that no one wanted to hear. Everything was cold and gray, everything was dark and the bitter air rank of rotting flesh, of rotting souls. Sometimes, guns would go off, we would hear them in the distance, and when it grew time to sleep, one more bed would be empty. We would file in, thin shadows falling on the floor in front of us as the dreaded sun set behind. Seated on our beds, each of us would silently pray that it would not rise in the morning, that the morning would never come, that the night would just stretch on and on for eternity. Our feet were bare, just bones covered by thin flaps of skin, just like the rest of our frail bodies. Our captors feet were shrouded by thick, hard boots, the kind created for breaking ribs and crushing fingers, the kind created with murder in mind. Seated on our beds, blankets made of frigid air wrapped around our shoulders, some would fall asleep instantly, welcoming the futile escape into frightened slumber, but others would lie awake, staring up at nothing, and listen to the quiet sobs of men beside them. Some would lie awake and listen to the terrified screams of the tortured from outside the hollow windows. Some would lie awake and listen to their broken minds, mutter phrases from its frantic ramblings and not worry about dying, not worry about torture, or brutal, bloodstained wars. Not worry about anything, but what their mind was whispering. And some, some would lie awake, not to listen, not to mutter, but to watch the barren wastelands outside the empty windows and past the guarded doors, to watch and think about their families, shattered and wandering outside of Hells vile cage. Or maybe, maybe that was only me.