My guardian angel didn't speak my language or live in my cell, but he stood there with me every day and turned the wheel to grind flour. We never actually got any of the flour that we made - it disappeared the minute it fell from the medieval stone - but we kept on it anyway. I honestly don't know why. Our lives were simply long days and not enough food, but we didn't know how to leave our white maze so I guess that was the reason we kept on with the flour grinding...
Today the stone was heavy as all the prisoners pushed our strength to the limit turning the wheel. End day came, and I sat down while taking my drink. I stood as the white people started coming but found that my head felt so empty, like all of my insides were pushed against the walls of my brain, and I stumbled, moving back and falling flat on my shadow. The white people were looming ever closer, but my vision was twisted and black spots were dancing before me. I was to be lashed, no doubt about it.
I flinched as a figure stepped between me and the musty window light. All of me was beating like the wake up call in the morning; fast, hard, trembling. Hell, I was sure I was vibrating. My eyes and ears took me on twists and turns , farther then closer to the noise in the room, pounding. Ever pounding. The figure reached down a hand, so backlit that I couldn't see his face. He stood there waiting and when I didn't take his hand he told me quickly and calmly,"Gou hulle hier." I didn't know what that mean but at the moment he was most certainly not my biggest concern, so as I placed my petite calloused hand into his much larger one, he pulled me gently and controlled to my feet. I started to stumble and he held my hand and snapped his fingers with mine between them, a physical reminder to be strong. The pressure that he left behind gave me something I hadn't thought of, not for a long time. It lifted my spirits, even just a little, it had me thinking that I could do this, just for a while. So I stood up tall in line as the white people passed me in their white suits and matching white helmets. They looked me up and down and deemed me fit for another day's work and another day of life.
When the white suited demons left the pavillion the prisoners all helped to carry the dead to the pile where they would be burned, but the man never left my side. He was always there next to me and when my vision cleared, I turned to see him and saw dark skin and a face too full of joy for this hell pit. He had glasses turned at the bridge, probably from a sound beating, and his muscles showed through his tattered dress shirt and pants. His face had the air of someone who had seen more than a lifetime's worth of wrongs but had found something worth living for. I wanted to ask him what it was but when I did he just frowned and said a group of heavy sounds that rolled around his mouth. His voice was low and deep, like it held so much more than just words, but I could not understand him.
I leaked a tear, something never to be done lest you wanted to be put out of your misery, as it slid he brushed it to the thirsty air and once again started snapping with my fingers, one finger, then the other, then the other and then the last before going back again. When he snapped warmth flowed, warm and beautiful, my guardian ange
