The Prisoner - short story competition entry

I am surprised to see sweetcorn on my plate. I’ve only had it once before, just before the war started. They do feed you well in this camp, two veg with every meal. I’ve even put on weight. Makes me wonder if they are winning if they have such well stocked supply lines. Still tastes like garbage though.

I don’t go near the doors outside any more. They say you’re allowed to, as long as you stay in the central quad. But all I can think of is Maurice tangled in the barbed wire, his body suspended like an obscene child’s toy discarded in a bush. He had tried to make a run in the night with some makeshift wire cutters. Sniper in the guard tower got him. Must have been years ago now but I can picture it like it’s yesterday. They left his body until morning so we could all see.

I’m in solitary now. Can’t remember what I did to get there. My current guard is a woman. When the hell did they let them become guards? Is it to humiliate us? I even notice that some of them are dark-skinned. Must be prisoners themselves then, collaborating for some extra rations. Wouldn’t catch me working with them.

No-one else seems to care about escaping now. We did in the early days, I remember. Sat up all night making plans. None of them came off, and after Maurice, we kind of gave up. “It won’t last forever” someone had said. “When the war ends, we’ll be out, either way.” Either way. In other words, even if the Krauts win.

I think I know why they’re feeding us well. I seem to be part of some experiment. The woman guard makes sure I take pills every day. I’ve heard rumours about what goes on in some camps. Doctors doing things no doctor should. This morning she tried to take by blood. Put a needle right in my arm. It made me sick, whatever they are up to, so I yanked that thing right out. Blood everywhere. She grabbed my arm and I tried to fight her off. But she was stronger than she looked. In the end a male guard held me still while she bandaged it up. But when she walked away there was blood stained on her white apron. Small victories.

Now I’m in a medical room. I think they’re going to try something worse on me. And there’s a mirror. Can’t remember the last time I looked in one.

What have they done to me?

My face is wrong. My hair is thin and white instead of blond. This must be the experiment, those goddam pills. My skin is sagging, wrinkled, my moustache gone. But my eyes are the same. I feel sick. The image in the mirror disgusts me. I pick up a stool to smash it, but I am only strong enough to crack it. Hurried footsteps at the door. My reflected face is a mosaic of jagged lines. I vomit. I can still see the yellow sweetcorn.

oh Jesus....when I realised the context of this story....holy hell, man

it gripped me, I'm not gonna lie, but this is dark stuff. Almost too real for my liking.

Loved your style of writing though, nice job

What story competition is this for? Ive been looking for short fiction competitions but only found the Manchester met comp.


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