Homeland
It was day sixteen. Or even seventeen? Fuck, how can one get confused so quickly? Can one tell from the length of one’s beard? Well, it’s no three-day-stubble anymore. He runs his hand through it. It feels filthy already.
The days blend into the nights, pain bleeds into pain, but he won’t tell anything, will not do what they demand of him.
It won’t matter anyway. This will be it. They are only being patient (or torturing) for so long. Tomorrow it will all be over. This will be his last night.