This will be a newer, and probably very similar, version of "Faces of War". I have decided to focus my attention on a new story because my old story lacked description. I have learned more on how to describe characters in my writing class and through reading, so i truly hope it will show here. The first "Chapter" is actually a Prologue which introduces the main character, Ryan, as he deals with his prison life. This story will focus on the future if you are curios.
The body slammed into the dark gray concrete floor with a mighty bang. Without thought, my eyes followed it as it was dragged away. The mans soul having already left it, leaving it without any colour, or facial expression. Only the pain in his eyes remained, sending a message to whoever had the heart to look into them, almost completely covered by the blood which was streaming from a hole in the back of his head.
"Execution is a hell of a thing," a man said beside me. "To know whats coming, and to not be able to do anything about it."
I didn't, couldn't, say anything back to him. I only felt the glare of his eyes on the back of my neck, burning into it. His name was Burns, so I was told. I was never told the real names of anyone around here, for, you see, I am a prisoner, stuck behind the bars that separate me from him. Stuck behind bars, hid away from the freedom of my earlier years of life.
Burns is a tall, skinny man who only wears raggy clothes. His cheekbones clearly protrude from his face, like he he not eaten in months. I slowly looked up to him and saw his eyes were half covered by his long, redish, hair. He then turned and walked away, back to his own job, without another thought.
My eyes trailed back to the concrete where a blood trail was now visible. I could not stand the sight, because I had known the man. He had been my best friend in this prison since the day we had been captured.
I then tried to get up, putting my hands out in front of me onto the concrete. Pausing, I just stared at them. I could not believe I was so skinny. All of the bones in my hand were visible, with no fat or muscle covering the fingers. I slowly rolled up one of my sleeves, scared of what I might see under the green combat shirt I was wearing, the same one I had been wearing since I arrived here seven months ago. I first saw the many scars, then the fresh wounds from being beaten, and all together my arm was nothing but skin and bone.
After climbing to my feet, pressing my back against the wall to support me, I looked into the mirror. I was immediately shocked by my appearance. I had chosen not to look into the mirror the day I arrived here because I knew I would constantly look different every day. I felt I would rather see the end result rather than watch my body rot day after day. But now, I did not even look like myself anymore. My round cheeks had shrunken to nothing. The brown hair that had been so short and neat, was now much longer and in many knots. I was a short man coming here, and I felt even smaller and less significant now that I had no weight left on me. Not even muscle remained. I could tell because the shirt I was wearing was torn and ripped in many places from when I had attempted to hand wash it. I now did not even care how I looked, I knew none of the people I cared about would ever see me again. My life is now all in a cage overlooking a small square where many of my friends were shot everyday.
My cell is very small. There is no bed and it has no seat. It only has a mirror hanging, without a purpose, on one of the two concrete walls. The other walls were jail bars, one connecting to the hall and the other facing the square from the third floor of the prison.
To the best of my knowledge, it is still 2040, or early 2041. I am stuck in a prison on some random, private, island just off the coast of Africa, so the seasons and exact months are hard to define. Sometimes they tell me the day, sometimes I ask and I just get hit over the head with a gun. These "people", who are more like cruel animals, care about no one and they have killed millions in the war that brought all of Europe, and the world to its knees. So, seeing as you may not know about all of the history of the war and why I am here, then I should explain it to you before I continue on. I am currently writing all of this on the strong paper napkins that have been provided for me. Once a week I would receive two, but soon enough they just stopped giving me any. I have hardly used any because they are so tough they tear the skin. One of the guards gave me a pencil to write letters home, so I still have it and I have never been given one stamp for any letters. Now, with the limited supply of napkins I have, here is my story for any who care. My name is Ryan, by the way.