so this is it, is it, thinks Sam
Place, fucking unknown, no one will say anything.
Army, UN I think, loads of different languages spoken.
Jake, in some room, they say hospital wing, I don't know, it's just what they say.
Me, what is this a cell?
Bed, mattress, duvet, washbasin, bog.
A little hatch in the door to look through, when I do it's a corridor, another wall, concrete. No one around I can see. Door metal, locked, trapped.
Last I saw of Jake was when we landed and a load of soldiers rushed the 'copter, bending under the slowing blades, doors slide open, four soldiers climb up, push my head down, hood it, arms pulled behind my back, head pushed forward, marched forward, down a ramp, air, warm, a breeze, inside, echoes, empty maybe, voices, Italian maybe, Spanish..hmm and German or was it Dutch, maybe Finnish or Danish dunno.
Then into this room I guess, hood off, eyes adjusting to the light as the last exits the room, his back, green uniform, is that?
Our current fucking position. North by Fucked North-West.
I shut my eyes and conjure a mental image of a razor blade, still wrapped in waxy paper cover, I pull up my sleeve, cletch my fist, veins raise, I unwrap the blade, run my arm under hot water, soften the cutting surface, dry, hot arm, drag blade up, always cut up the arm, up, opening the vein, spilling the blood, it runs, down, hits the floor, I watch as it spills, there's no cell, no danger, no Jake, no love there's just death facing me and that's all good.