A Flowing River

Mao could faintly recall a time when he found the sound of water soothing.

Perhaps it had been a river to swim and play in during the hot summer, or perhaps the town fountain, the proud centerpiece for a place that held little else beyond good intentions and peace.

Those times felt so far away, nearly as distant as any happiness he once held, leaving only this painful nostalgia that carved at his heart as he stared at the water before him. 

The flowing feature moved more than all the prisoners in this hell did in a day, as strong and constant as the people were weak and devoid of hope.

At least, most were devoid of hope. The ones who still complained and wailed he thought must still hold some glimmer of light, however illusionary. The rest of them had lost even that, only their faint murmurs and breathing separating them from the corpses that were littered around.

Mao wanted to believe he had not fallen so far. He could not say he had hope anymore, that had bled away with each experiment, leaving only scars that grew more prominent and memories that grew fainter with each passing day.

But there was still a sense of longing, a sense of need that held his fragile heart steady.

Like the water, it was constant. It did not bring comfort, but it was a reminder to him that life continued on somewhere past these walls.

As he suffered, some child enjoyed the tart grapes that he once would sneak from the winery.

As he sat here, his body so wounded he barely felt pain, some child laid in their soft bed, ready to have to sweet dreams within the comfort of the only home they had ever known.

Mao did not hope or believe that he could be like them again some day.

But just as the water remained, the possibility remained that he would leave this place.

So just as the water continued to flow, regardless of its surroundings, he would continue to wait and remember the family that had been killed.

It was all he had left.