His prison was of his own making. The evidence was all around him and quite rightly, he thought, as his hand moved across another piece of stone. He gathered them into him like a duvet on a bitterly cold night. They had kept him warm enough. To have had the one instrument he needed was a stroke of luck or genius. It had given him the only opportunity to carve his last words. In between the bouts of unconsciousness from the drugs, he knew these were his last words. To be able to scribe, not hieroglyphics exactly, but something close. Certainly an explanation, if ever they deciphered it.
His tormentor had moved him more than once. In his drug-induced state, he didn’t know where or how but each time there was the comfort of the stones. The concept of being able to use his tools to send a message amused him. Not that anyone wanted a message from him anymore. If he was reflective, it was because of fear. Fear had never bothered him in the past but now it did. How he’d deal with it in the final moments he didn’t know. Those final moments were imminent; he’d pissed off too many people. Did he regret it? He didn’t know, just always done what he had to without empathy or guilt.
Anyway, it was far too late to care. He picked up a stone and carried on.