September 11 1984.
There is only so much perpetual confinement a man can take. Often I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to stand it. The delusion that I could possibly still be an individual seized my absent mind. Porcelain white walls delineate me. No windows, no chance in hell to escape.
I imagine O’Brien pinning the other prisoners’ arms to the wall, and slowly driving nails that are the length of their feet into their wrists. When he finishes there, I look to see him nailing their ankles through the sides of their legs; one nail for two ankles. I can feel the torture watching them, as the blood is drawn out of their bodies. They scream in agony, and he stands there laughing at the pain they are forced to endure. He then proceeds to break every single bone in their body. They scream even more and their eyes widen at the torture. He makes me watch this part, telling me that I am his prize. His masterpiece, his work of art. That no other’s pain would he capture quite brilliantly as mine. I tremble, hoping that he would just do it already,, and I would no longer live in such agony. When every single bone in the body of the tortured had been broken, he draws a stick from his fire that is still gleaming with the red hot flames of it, and slowly applies it to their skin. They scream and he forces them to confess of the crimes they committed against the party as he burns them alive. He burns the skin off layer by layer watching it slowly filter away, until finally there is none left, and the only thing left to do with them is throw their bodies into the fire.
These thoughts infiltrate my mind. I continue to write in this diary as it’s the only thing keeping me sane. I rarely think of Julia. I find it hard to fix her imagine in my mind.
A force pulls inside the bottom of my throat, pulling its way upward, slowly trying to draw back down as I inhale, then pulling itself up yet again. It hurts. It warns me and threatens me, all the while grabbing at...
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