Journey To Ashley

Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of his tired mind, a memory of Ashley flitted past, a thing which happened more and more frequently now, compared to the many years when he rarely thought of her at all.  He remembered for the millionth time the first few weeks after he left her and the children in Boston to rush off to right the wrongs in far off South America when passion and zeal outweighed any guilt he might have felt.  He was sure; away back then, she would eventually come to understand the urgency of his mission. 

He didn't prove to be a very effective savior of the masses, however, since he was captured almost immediately and thrown into prison to undergo years of the most physically unendurable misery and mind numbing experiences one could ever imagine. 

He had long since given up any thought of escape when the opportunity presented itself so unexpectedly, he almost missed it. 

Daryll and a handful of other prisoners were made to work in the nearby jungle cutting timber in soggy heat amid insects and snakes that proved almost fatal more than once.  Malnutrition and weariness were his constant companions, making life, if one could call it that, unbearable in the extreme. 

Each day was exactly like the one before, with the long march back to the antiquated cell building a welcome relief.  The evening meal of beans, and usually some slimy vegetable, was routinely eaten without notice or relish in the dim rat-infested dining area, then the shambling gait to the cellblock.  Exhausted sleep on a hard pallet was often interrupted by screams of people being tortured.  Political offenders were the worse off if they were unfortunate enough to be caught. 

One of the guards, a greasy disheartened looking fellow, middle aged and apparently short of interest in this whole matter was in charge this particular night.  He must have been a part-time worker, apparently to relieve one of his fellow guards.  It had been a long time since anyone had the strength to try an escape so security was rather lax. 

The sound of the bolt on the heavy wooden door being shot home was usually the last sound each man heard at the end of the day, and it was never taken for granted.  It was listened for routinely, like the period at the end of a long sentence, marking and underscoring the utter hopelessness of the situation.

This evening the guard seemed dazed and kept muttering to himself perhaps under the influence of drugs or liquor, as he roughly shoved each man into his filthy cubicle.  Sounds of the other guards securing the place echoed throughout the shabby complex. 

In Daryll's case, the expected rasp of the huge metal bolt being slid into place did not come.  He blinked in the failing light as his heart jerked and his stomach twisted painfully.