As I lay here and wait,  I ask myself:
What makes a martyr?
Is it someone who gives their life?
or someone who suffers for another's benefit?...
I think of that dreaded day
when they held us there tortured.
I remember them holding you with their filthy hands
and a blade matching my own
pressed close cold to my windpipe.
"Who lives?  Her or you?" he asked tauntigly
and the blood drained for every ounce of me.
If only one could live,
I had to choose who...
I felt the cold sheet press into my skin
and I bit my tongue to hide the pain.
I looked at you,
your eyes wide with fear and pain
awaiting my decision...
All I want is for you to live without suffering,
but I think I've already failed at that.
Would a martyr take their own life
and leave the others to suffer?
Would you suffer without me there?
Would you even continue on?...
The other option to take your life,
and that I could never do...
"We need an answer," he chides to me
and I glare back with eyes of flame
riddled with anger and hurt.
"Take us both or not at all."

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