The Unknown Universe of Drafts

Anonymous

The wicked cell was foul.

The air was oppressive and tensed as if a living monster had arisen from the chemistry of perspiration, human waste, and stagnant water. The heat was unbearable. It reeked up the cell and suffocates my dying lungs, driving me to the brink of my sanity.

There was a single tap by a corner, laden with rust and filth where cockroaches and bugs crawled about. Beneath the tap was a hole meant for toiletry purposes. There was no privacy – nothing to be ashamed of – as we conduct our daily routine in the open view of everyone. We were living like cattle, trapped within the four barren walls that stripped away our freedom and desires. Crammed in our cage, I could discern at least nineteen other prisoners. Their faces were ashen, eyes void of life. Instead, what filled their empty souls were the madness and humiliation of being a Prisoner of War to the Japanese.

Sometimes, as we knelt through the days, I could hear the sound of raindrop. It was the closest thing that made us reminiscence about the days when we were home. It was nostalgic to think that we were once at peace, where everyone was free to live however they wanted to. I used to live in London, where the weather was constantly raining. I hated the rain, for it soils my shoes and occasionally, my clothes. Nonetheless, my wife loved it. "I love the smell of fresh rain, don't you, darling?" she would always say. It was one of the little things which make up parts of our homeland, and I believe, as I think about it right now, that I regretted not cherishing that precious aspect of home.

What brightens my day, you ask? My answer would be a particular Asian woman.
Every day, she would come in through the gates of hell wearing a simple pink qipao that accented her curves and complimented the flower accessory in her freshly-tied bun. The woman had a slight spring in her steps, causing the jade bangles around her delicate wrists to clink in a melodious harmony. She also carried an enormous basket that she held close to her hip. That woman's name was Elizabeth Choy, and in contrast to our pathetic selves, she was a literal goddess.

We were not allowed to talk with one another, so all we could do was shut out mouths tightly as we watched her scurried from cell to cell, passing on letters and parcels to the prisoners. When it was our turn, she took a quick glance at us before reaching into her basket and taking out two parcels. The way she handed us the parcels was almost enthralling; the way her actions were so précised and coordinated, and the way she gazed straight into our eyes as if she could chase away the darkness in our hearts.

Her eyes were thriving with a vigorous passion to live. And she wanted to convey that message to us – as if there was a reason to.

With a friendly smile, she hurried away and proceeded to the next cell. Turning to my fellow inmate, he jutted his chin and I nodded. Without hesitation, I tore away the brown wrapping paper with the desperation of a hungry wolf yearning for blood. For a moment, it was like the "killing calm", the fury before the tranquil, the calm before the storm (however you wish to call it) and all that echoed off the walls were the sound of ripping and stripping. When the moment of revelation arrived, our eyes widened to find out that the woman had delivered us an assortment of medicine and clothes. And beneath it was a radio part and a note.

The note and radio part were swiped away immediately, and so were most of the clothing. Getting a decent shower was wishful thinking in this cage. We were considered fortunate to be able to have little water to wash our faces. Our daily meals, pathetic portions they were, were shoved through a trap door where bloodcurdling screams rang from the interrogation room on the other side. Voracious, everyone would eat up the last grain of rice. Even a grain of rice fallen to the ground will be retrieved. As I lifted up the last shirt in the parcel and pulled it over my head, I realised that the sensation was strangely satisfying. It felt like a new skin had painted over my old, battered one, healing the pain of my sore and swollen body. Warmth enveloped me and for a moment, I felt human again.

Operation Jaywick was a success. No one saw it coming, not even us. The raid took the Japanese authorities in Singapore by complete surprise, blowing an enormous stain on Japan's prestige.
Immediately after, a wave of arrest, torture, and executions was swept through Singapore. The day before the Double Tenth incident, internees were ordered to parade in the open. There were no explanations given. And all exits were sealed off. Afterwards, the Kempeitai conducted a thorough search through the prison, uncovering our self-made radios, letters and money. Many of my inmates were hauled out and forced into the dreaded interrogation room where torture and starvation were conducted to compel confessions.

As the rest of us knelt through the night, we could hear the groans of badly-tortured prisoners outside the cell. They were left lying, howling in pain and agony. The cries of the dying would pierce our ears and hearts. It was the most distressing. No one slept that night.

For days on end, all of us knelt in the cell, awaiting death. I never thought that I would come out of this ordeal alive, and for once, I believed that I was set for heaven. So, when it was my turn, I crawled out of the trap door and walked unsteadily to the interrogation room. It was certain death.

Yet, I was ready.

Tell my wife I loved her.