The lamp swinging overhead provided a dim light that almost, almost allowed him to see the door, or for that matter, anything more than a few yards ahead of him. He could feel sleep coming upon him, but knew it would never get him to succumb. The pain that left him gasping every time his heart beat, feeling as if any second it would burst. Torture could take away your courage, he knew that from experience. He had quickly taught himself the wonderful art of total submittance on the outside, yet complete rebellion on his personal side.

                           Suddenly, the door creaked open. A tall man entered and sat down on the chair opposite to him. When the light reached the part of its rotation where he could vaguely make out the man’s features, a thought slammed into his mind. He knew this type of man. Shrewd, deceitful, full of imaginary power that they force upon all who they lay their gaze at. The word was broadcasted into his brain, straight from his subconscience, with a single emotion encasing it: hate. This man was a politician. Not the kind who made their lies about hope and change, but the kind who through it all away, who straight out said what they believed in. They were the most dangerous. Smarter than the others, they knew how to win the hand. They could play your cards for your, and make you believe otherwise. It was essential for them to be squelched immediately. Their only role in life was to further the devil’s own purpose: the restriction of man.

                           Minutes passed. Then hours. He had read in the books, when he still could, as a child, of how long time seemed while you were imprisoned. The details, he thought,  were horribly mistated. How long it seems I have been here, yet my watch says minutes, but I think hours, maybe days! The man seemed to read his thoughts, and a slow smile formed on his face. It was a smile that read like a book: I’m here, so are you, I’m in charge, you do what I say, no questions. Then he began to talk. The voice that flowed from that horrible, over-curved mouth was like sugar. It was disarming, instilling a false sense of security that blanketed all. It was tempting, actually, to just interrupt him and blurt out I’m sorry, forgive me. Don’t hurt me, I’ll do what you want, just let me be.