The Handwriting on the Wall

The final words of a graphite death camp prisoner.

I believe my time is coming, all of the forward detainees have already been transferred, to where, I’m can't be sure, but nothing can be worse than this wooden prison, opressing body and mind. I’m not sure, but I don’t think all of my fellow prisoners are going to the same place, most of them seem to going to similar rectangular white cells, you start to get a little loopy when your time is coming, so I assume that what I saw was the psychiatric wing, I can't be sure, I only got a glimpse. Every once in a while they transfer large groups at one time, first they’re there, then there suddenly gone with a deafening snap, never to be seen again. When this happens they bring in a machine they call “The Sharpener”, they tell us that the machine makes us sharper, stronger, and better as a whole, but I know the truth, it’s a death machine, the grinding, the snapping, I know what it is. Even worse than all of this, worse than the constant fear of the unknown, worse than endless wondering of what will be your end when you reach the point of no return, worse than any of this, is the executioners constant smirking glare. He sits there all day and night, his grinning pink face smeared with the filth of his last execution, we all know he can‘t get us as long as we‘re in here, but for some reason, that doesn’t make it any better. The wooden prison of Ticonderoga, we have no names, just a number, #2, they say they need us for tests, it seems that they’re simply testing how long it takes for our wills to break. It doesn't take long.

The end has come, the sharpener is calling for me, but stand strong my brothers and do not break, for if you do, your words will never be heard.