Fictionalized depiction of a story of a prisoner in Saydnaya Prison in Damascus, Syria. A prison widely known as the “Human Slaughterhouse” for its torture, abuse, and extreme violations of human rights against any who opposed the Assad regime and were arrested illegally and held without trial. Many were freed when Syria was liberated on December 8th, 2024. Thousands more remain trapped or missing.
This story contains imprisonment, sexual and physical abuse, beatings, torture, blood, confinement, PTSD
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He silently counts the droplets as they make their way to the cold, hard ground, echoing as they land. The only noise he lets in. They always fall at a similar pace. One after the other, a comforting pattern. Perhaps if he was smarter he could have used it to tell the time. He forgot what a clock looked like. Couldn’t tell day from night. It all blended in together. He didn’t even know where the water was dripping from, which corner of the cell—are you able to tell? He can’t even see his own hand, as he holds it out before him and squints hard until a migraine blooms, letting his arm flop back into his lap. Nothing, like always. He had hoped that after being in here for so long his eyes would adjust, but it was almost like they controlled that too. The darkness. Do you see the light? He doesn’t.
Drip. Drip.
Should he count his heartbeats? No… no… no…he fervently shakes his head side to side, his long hair hitting the sides of his face. He already did that. His head spins from the sudden movement and he puts it between his knees—they are always curled into his chest, not enough space to stretch out his legs here—pressing the heels of his hands into his temples. What about shaking his head harder? Will that shake the thoughts out? Empty his brain? What a silly idea. Do you think so too? A laugh wells up in the back of his throat, threatening to release into the darkness around him, but he stops himself in time.
They had hauled him out of his solitary confinement the last time they heard his voice, pulling him roughly by the shoulders—they had to pull him up since his cell was underground, his body had squeezed through the hole of a door, and his legs, weak and atrophied from the lack of movement, dragged against the stone walls. They had thrown him on the ground in the hallway, his body slamming against the cement floor, reverberating all his bones. He was blinded by the prison lights, dim as they were, and just as he tried blinking away the floating black spots, he felt the first kick to his stomach. Each punch—are you still listening? A metallic taste had filled his mouth and as he coughed, a new blood splatter painted the ground. Groaning, he had curled up into a fetal position, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to keep his bones together. He glanced, his vision blurring, at the wall across from him stained with layers of dried blood from those who came before him and closed his burning eyes. They kept asking him over the sound of his wheezing what it was he had recited in the cell, what business did he have reciting that. Do you remember what it was? He doesn’t. Just as he had managed to peel his eyes open again, they began to strip him of his clothes, holding him down as he tried to kick them off, no longer concerned with his broken ribs—their eyes glinting maniacally as one of them pulled out a pole. He had begun to shake violently as they turned him around and—
Drip.
Are you counting with him? He needs to stay focused. Everything will fall apart if he forgets the pattern of the droplets. Everything. The cell would crumble, plunging him deeper into the shadows. Maybe his brain would melt. Maybe he would evaporate. That sounded nice. He could become part of the clouds. Was the sky still blue? No, white. Blue?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He leans his head against the damp wall behind him, putting both hands out to feel the opposite side of the cell, as if that would stop it from closing in. The stone’s coldness had seeped into his bones long ago. He wonders if his evaporation would make it back to the sky, or if he would be stuck to the ceiling of this cell. His cell? Doomed to stay here forever and become the next droplet, dripping down or clinging to the walls of this place. What was it that he was reciting that day, he wonders again. What was it. Perhaps it would help him pass the time now. Could you help him remember? He promises to recite quieter this time if you remind him.
Drip. Drip.
He hears a noise that sounds far away. Frowning, he strains his right ear closer to the door above to make out loud shouts. Perhaps another guard and prisoner are fighting. Those never ended well—not for the prisoner. He shudders and leans away from the door, pressing himself to the opposite wall. He must not lose pace. He should try to drown it out, block it out, before the memories drown him. What about numbers? For some reason, even after everything else left him, they did not. It is not the comfort he wishes it would be. He takes a deep breath, preparing to count backward from a thousand, when he hears the cell door above him begin to unlock.
Drip.
No, no, no, he gasps, his body jerks away from the door—but there’s nowhere else to go—fighting to intake fresh air but all he can muster is the stifling, stale fog around him. He brings his scrawny knees closer to his chest, ignoring the ache from his broken ribcage as he does, burrowing his head as he curls into a ball, tilting forward and back, rocking rapidly. It’s too soon. His heart starts pounding furiously in his chest, perhaps beating the thousand beats he hadn’t yet counted, each one hammering against his ribs, sending small, shooting pains across his chest. His body trembles from the rush of adrenaline as he shakes his head side to side in spasms. His fingers curl in tight fists into his hair, tugging at his scalp and pulling out strands. His stomach twists from the terror as bile rises in the back of his throat. It was too soon. They just pulled him out for what they liked to call interrogation two days ago. Too soon. Was it two? Do you know if it was two or more? Did he count the droplets wrong? Did he miss one? He must have. He messed up the pace, the pattern, and now it was all over, they were here for him, and he wasn’t ready—
Drip. Drip. Drip.
His arms jerk away and tighten in reflex as a set of strong hands grab him out of his cell, but they’re not grabbing him out of anger, they’re gentler than what he’s used to. They pull him out quickly—his knees fall away as his body is lifted without even brushing the cell walls—and place him on his feet in the hallway in one swift movement. All the prison lights are on, and his eyes take more time to adjust than usual. His internal alarm goes off as the hands hold him up firmly outside his cell—the lights are never all on. They like the cover of darkness, even in the hallway. Light was a danger, not a savior. What was happening? His right foot catches on the back of his left as he tries to balance on his weak limbs. He stumbles forward and his stomach clenches as the hands grab him again, expecting the punch for the slipup, but it never comes. Something is wrong.
His eyes follow the hands holding him as squints up at his captors. He sees their mouths moving and tries to focus on what they’re saying. It’s not part of his routine—he is used to blocking out everything, for his own sanity you see—so his ears have forgotten how to listen to others and his eyes how to see them. There were only ever the droplets; his companions in the dark. When he finally makes out the words, he hears strong and firm voices lilting with an undertone of triumph, explaining that they’re soldiers of the free army. Free army? That they’ve captured the prison and the surrounding cities. That the revolution was successful. Revolution? That the government is toppled. That they’ve won. That he’s free. He blinks once and looks down at the ground, his eyes zeroing in on a dried stain of darkened blood that might have been his. Free? He no longer knows what the word means. Do you?
Thank you to Tiernan O’Neal for her assistance with editing and revising this piece. It would not be where it is without her help.
