What binds his raw wrists hard behind his back is the last and hurtful thing he feels with his hands in the chill air but the air itself, as his fingers reach for his other hand. He wants to hold at the last some familiar thing like himself, but he can't lock his rigid fingers together. His nakedness is his own pain, white, and hard for him to carry. The wind is like splinters in the gash on his shoulder, bulging. Cracked blood stiffens the skin of his thigh and the cold place he was mutilated-- where the ache thickens in yellow bruises. The grave at his feet is shallow. It is his own. He dug it. Suddenly he will be clubbed into it. Soon. And no friend will save him from it at the very last. Nothing. No one. He will die. The dying will not be long. He can say, "Sara." He can say, "Lord Jesus." "My country." "Good brothers, bless my death." "Father." Whatever he chooses to say is the last thing he will throw to the living air from himself, and the enemy will hear but not understand. Heavy to his neck, the blow, back, knees buckling, he falls, knocked
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forward to the grave. "Sara!" He did not choose. |