My eyes flicker open to consciousness and the smell of stale blood and defecation.
'God Always has a plan.'
I heard that a hundred times in Church as a child. Peering through the threads of a faceless bag I see my crucifix still clutched in my shackled numb hand.
Did I not say enough 'Hail Mary's'? Did I not confess enough sins?
The echoing screams from the other side of the wall have faded away. Creeping ever closer. That one sounded like...maybe Johnson? Or Sapp?
'In God We Trust' my ***. Prayer has left me here to fade away with the screams of my brothers. Inaction masked by faith and misplaced hope. They say there are no atheists in a foxhole. No one counted the atheists in a prison cell.
I count them by their screams.
Forcing my hand open I drop the crucifix. It splashes in a puddle of grimy sweat and blood and lands on top of my dog tags.