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He never had felt such misery, suffering all his life. He could no longer stay in this shapeless, stone-turning coffin. Has it been three months since he’d been brought? Five months? For months he had been having a chat with the thin air coming from the iron keyhole and the dead light seeping through the hand-sized window. Time was now lost along with colours. Hours, days, weeks, months mingled. When was yesterday; Which date was tomorrow? He couldn't remember anymore. As if he had no past. As if he had never lived. He couldn't remember the colour of walls, how old he was, when he had come here, when he had last taken a bath. He had no idea how he looked. He hadn't seen anyone's faces for months but the blackened faces of the interrogators. He had heard nothing but screams and pains emanating from the torture chambers. Maybe that's how he was able to endure the torture officers' efforts to get him to talk in various ways; knowing nothing but his name…


He tried to see his hands in the dim light of the street lamp filtering through the dirty window. He stared at his dirty fingernails and palms for a long time… As if they didn't belong to him. With his hands on his elongated, messy beard and hair; then he ran it around the walls of his cell. He was looking for something familiar but couldn't find it. He felt like crying. Just when he was about to let his tears down, he heard her voice:

“I can't lift my arms, I'm bleeding!”

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