October 10, 2014. I think.

I’ve been held captive for five weeks, now. I told them everything I know. I can barely see out of my left eye. My face hurts… I think it’s swollen. I’m certain that my teeth are chipped. The food looks like rice and cheese. The water tastes rust.

Some diehard Republican with a hard-on for “justice” will tell you that America doesn’t torture people. Bullshit. I’ve been in United States government custody under reason of being connected to some terrorist leader. As in, the brother of the friend, of a friend, of a follower of that leader. May as well just take some random man off the streets of the Middle East and interrogate them for any bullshit they know. I legitimately know nothing. I’ll say anything to get myself out of the pain they inflict on me.

Being tortured is universal. It’s been happening for centuries. People will torture you for anything. Information, infidelity, money, revenge. Someone would torture you just to prove they have the biggest dick in the room. You can be tortured simply because someone doesn’t have anything else to do; it’s a slow day at work, and your shit faced pal, George, already took his lunch break and you have no one to talk to. You take someone like me into the torture room and beat me senseless.

There’s thousands of ways to be tortured, too. My first session had me plugged up to this machine. You know those “truth detector” desks that people sit in and when people ask them questions, a needle scratches down if you just said the truth or not? It’s kind of like that, only instead of a needle, you’re shocked with a few hundred volts of electricity every time you lie. Soon enough, your back smells like a pan sizzling bacon grease.

Probably the most basic torture method is the old classic; putting a bag over your head as several large cunts beat the ever-loving fuck out of you. That what happened to me a few minutes before I started writing this journal entry. I’m bruised, bullied, black and blue and bleeding. I can barely see the words I’m writing. When you’re being beaten, you can’t even yell in pain without someone ordering you to “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The most fearsome and notorious method, however, is this beauty. Waterboarding. Imagine being tied down to the bottom of a swimming pool, with the drain beside your head. Although you are separated from it by a puny washcloth, it doesn’t change the feeling; you’re drowning. What really is happening is being strapped to a board, angled so that your feet rise above your head. Some cocksucker named Paul pours water out of a jerry can onto your covered face. He pauses now and again to hear you gargle for a breath, and then pours more onto you.

But… the worst method of them all is the one where you receive no physical pain. You are taken to a completely white room. No footprints, cracks, indents, furniture, anything to take your mind off the total desolate room. Enough time in there, looking around, hoping, praying something will happen, you go mad. Your brain tries to fill the space. You imagine objects to interact with, people to speak to. If you’ve been physically abused enough, you imagine being tortured even more. This is by far the worst way to feel pain. After a few days in the white room, you are an empty shell of a man. My best friend, Omar, also held captive, described to me what it was like. Stammering his sentences, he stopped suddenly. He looked at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. I could see nothing but pain in them. He started crying and was unconscious in minut

Shit. Fuck FUCK FUCK. I hear guards outside the captive’s room. Sounds like they’re going down a list. “Omar Abdul? “…White room.” “How many times?” “Just one so far.” “Alright. …How about,” I cringed when my name was said. “He hasn’t been to the white room, yet.” “Alright. He goes in there in... a half hour.”

I need to get out of here. This will be my last journal entry. I’m going to use this pen as a weapon. I’ll take down at least one of those motherfuckers before they shoot me down. I’m not facing what Omar has. I will gladly accept death than that. Speaking of which, I can’t just leave him here. He’s got to come with me, or at least try. I can’t let him wake up to his friend in a pool of his own blood. It would drive him crazier than he is already. He won’t be able to tell the difference between fiction and reality.

I just ripped this sketchbook apart. I tore my shirt in pieces. I used the metal binder and cloth as a claw weapon. Maybe I can scratch the hell out of the lot of them. I woke up Omar and told him what we were going to do. If anyone ever reads this, you will know our story. Protest torture. Please.


On the day of October 10, 2014, two men attacked several guards of the United States Department of Defense. Captives Omar Abdul and Ibraham Bahir were shot on sight after killing three guards in total. The story did not reach headlines, as all torture news is classified. Weaponry included a writing pen as well as iron strips taken from a sketchbook. Said sketchbook was found in Bahir’s left pocket, labeled as evidence.





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