Requiem Defunctorum

The Last Testament of a Soldier Insane...

He sat idle in the cell, face long and heavy, though there were no bars to grab hold of. Nothing to shake, nothing to rail against. Neither a pot to piss in nor a cup to clank in alarm.

He just sat there. Prisoner, yes. Of war, no.

He felt the damnedest urge to rip free from it, get in his chromium fortress and soar off and above, out and out until the skies went black, and only the most resplendent of stars shone.

Yet here the black wolf sat. Four walls without a lock, three square piles of whatever passed for sustenance. And a lone piece of what remained from before.

A picture. Four sides. Within them...you. Yes you, the one he could not tear himself away from for all the commands given, all the bullets rained, and all the flames ignited.

He would not let go of that picture. He still hasn’t. We found him in Sickbay with it resting square on his chest. He thought you’d like to have it.

It was his only escape.