An Illustrated Story: Abused War Captive

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Their economy of flesh expanded. By the time the submarine surfaced near the island, they'd catalogued which guards preferred quiet crying versus theatrical moans, who would pay extra for a glimpse of Lea's scarred ribs under the dim bulb, which officers wanted their hair pulled hard enough to draw tears. Camryn learned to swallow the bile rising in her throat when hands groped under her stained shift—better than the lash, better than starvation. They both recovered during the voyage to participate often in the trade of sex for food. The cook became a regular client, always arriving after lights-out with his tattooed knuckles glinting in the emergency glow. He developed a ritual: first the sex, brisk and perfunctory against the torpedo rack; then the sharing of his flask while Lea described pre-war recipes in hoarse detail. Every submariner satisfied their sexual urges with the two captives before they had reached the island from where they had originally departed.

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The island had changed again in their absence. New trenches gashed the beach, filled with rainwater and discarded ampoules. The pumping station now had shackle points for twenty women. Camryn's old hut still bore the fading red symbol .

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to be continued...

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Five years. The island’s occupation shifted from brutal consolidation to desperate fortification. Whispers slithered through the camp like poisonous snakes: enemy fleets sighted, key coastal defenses crumbling, supply lines severed. The soldiers’ faces, once marked by bored cruelty, now tightened with raw fear. Orders barked louder, drills grew frantic. The laughter in the officers’ club turned brittle, edged with panic. Camryn sensed the shift in the men who visited her hut. Their touches grew rougher, more frantic, their eyes darting as if expecting retribution. They spoke less, hurried more. The once-regular food deliveries became sporadic. The fear was palpable, a sour tang in the air. It was a fear Camryn couldn’t share; her terror had long ago calcified into numb endurance. A retreat by the enemy wasn’t freedom; it was an unknown abyss.

The order came at dawn one day. Heavy boots stopped outside her door, not the usual careless shuffle. The padlock scraped open with a finality that echoed in Camryn’s hollow chest. Corporal Vanya stood silhouetted against the fading light—his uniform stained, eyes bloodshot and avoiding hers. He gestured sharply with his rifle barrel towards the jungle path snaking up the mountain. No explanation was needed. The crude red symbol on her door had become a death warrant. Camryn rose slowly, movements stiff from years of confinement. She didn’t plead. Pleading died years ago. She simply walked on gravel, feeling the cool evening air on her skin for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Vanya placed a leash around her neck, his breath ragged and led her down the jungle path.

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to be continued ...

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Instead of heading deeper into the wilds for a quick execution, Vanya veered onto a narrow, overgrown trail Camryn hadn’t seen since her first days on the island. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of damp earth and orchids. He pulled her roughly through a curtain of hanging vines into a small, hidden grotto. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, illuminating a simple wooden cross planted firmly in the mossy ground. This was the place Brother Thomas had shown her years ago, a sanctuary carved by the missionaries. "For prayer," he’d said, "for peace." Vanya shoved her towards the cross, his hands trembling. He mumbled something in his own language, a choked sound that might have been a prayer or a curse. For a moment, his face contorted, not with cruelty, but with a desperate, haunted look. He stared at the cross, then at Camryn, his knuckles white on his rifle stock. The grotto’s stillness felt like a held breath.

He didn’t tie her to the cross. Instead, he gestured violently for her to kneel before it. The damp moss soaked through her thin shift as she obeyed. Vanya paced, his boots crunching on fallen leaves, his gaze darting between her and the jungle entrance. He stopped abruptly, facing the cross himself, his shoulders hunched. "They know," he rasped in broken English, voice thick with fear. "The General... he knows I take you. Not for... not for killing. Not yet." He turned, his eyes wild. " I bring you here for sport. Like the others." He spat the word ‘sport’ like poison. Camryn understood. The grotto wasn’t sanctuary; it was a stage for his final, twisted act of defiance against his own orders, or perhaps a perverted attempt at penance before the inevitable retreat. He raised his rifle, not at her, but towards the sky, his finger twitching on the trigger.

Then he lowered it. A shudder ran through him. He looked at Camryn, kneeling in the moss, her face hollow, her eyes reflecting the sunlight like dull stones. Something snapped. With a guttural cry, he ripped the thick leather belt from his trousers. The buckle, heavy and brass, gleamed wickedly. He lashed out. The belt cracked against Camryn’s shoulder, the force snapping her head sideways. Pain, sharp and familiar, bloomed across her skin. He struck again, across her back, the leather biting through the thin fabric, leaving fiery stripes. She didn’t scream. She folded forward, bracing her hands on the cool earth, absorbing the blows like the dead wood she felt herself to be. Each strike was punctuated by his ragged breaths, curses in his own tongue mixing with the wet thud of leather on flesh. He wasn’t just punishing her; he was exorcising his own terror, his own guilt, on the only thing he could still control.

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He threw the belt aside, breathing hard. His eyes darted around the grotto, landing on the wooden cross. A new frenzy seized him. He grabbed Camryn’s arm, hauling her roughly to her feet. She stumbled, her legs weak from kneeling and the beating. He shoved her hard against the rough-hewn vertical beam of the cross. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Before she could react, he seized her right wrist, pinning it high against the wood. From his belt pouch, he pulled a thick, rusted iron spike and a heavy rock. Panic, sharp and sudden, cut through Camryn’s numbness. She struggled weakly, a hoarse gasp escaping her lips. Vanya ignored her, positioning the spike’s blunt tip against the center of her palm. He raised the rock high.

The hammer-stone came down with brutal force. A sickening crunch echoed in the grotto, followed by Camryn’s raw, guttural scream. White-hot agony exploded through her hand, radiating up her arm like liquid fire. Her fingers spasmed uncontrollably. Vanya worked quickly, almost mechanically, pinning her left wrist next. Another spike. Another deafening blow of rock on iron. Another scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. Blood, dark and slick, welled around the spikes, dripping down the weathered wood and onto the moss below. He didn’t stop. He forced her bare feet back against the base of the cross, one after the other, driving spikes through the arches. Each impact sent fresh waves of agony through her shattered body, each scream weaker than the last. When he stepped back, panting, Camryn hung suspended, crucified in the moonlight, her body a map of torment, blood tracing slow paths down the ancient symbol of faith.

He stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving. The haunted look was gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness. He picked up his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and turned without a word. He vanished through the curtain of vines, leaving only the fading sound of his boots on the jungle path and the relentless throb of Camryn’s ruined hands and feet. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The cool air felt like ice against her sweat-slicked skin. She hung limply, the iron spikes the only thing holding her upright. Every breath was a knife in her chest. The sunlight illuminated the blood pooling beneath her, the dark stains spreading on the moss. The scent of crushed orchids mixed with the metallic tang of her own blood. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the void of pain. Death felt like a mercy long overdue.

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Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Small, dark shapes emerged from the dense undergrowth – rats, drawn by the potent smell of fresh blood. Their beady eyes glinted in the light as they cautiously approached the base of the cross. One bold creature darted forward, its sharp teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her pinned ankle. Camryn jerked, a weak whimper escaping her cracked lips. The movement sent fresh agony screaming through her impaled feet. More rats joined, emboldened, gnawing at her exposed skin. Above, the harsh caw of ravens echoed. They landed heavily on the crossbeam, their black feathers glossy, their beaks sharp and cruel. They hopped closer, pecking experimentally at her tangled hair, her bare shoulders, the blood drying on her arms. Insects swarmed next – biting flies drawn to the moisture, tarantulas crawling over the wounds, ants marching in relentless lines towards the feast. The jungle was reclaiming her, piece by piece. She felt the skittering legs, the sharp nips, the tearing bites. Her mind retreated further, dissociating as she had learned to do in the hut. The pain became a distant storm, the creatures merely scavengers doing their work. She was already carrion.

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A sharp whistle sliced through the grove. The sound was piercing, unnatural. The rats scattered instantly, vanishing into the roots. The ravens took flight with startled cries. The insects seemed to pause their relentless march. Corporal Vanya crashed back through the vines, his face pale, eyes wide with panic. He looked wildly from Camryn to the jungle path behind him. The distant, mournful wail of evacuation sirens drifted faintly on the wind. "They are leaving!" he gasped, his voice ragged. "The ships... they go now!" He stared at Camryn, crucified and bleeding, the insects already returning. His expression twisted, a flicker of something like horror breaking through the soldier's mask. "My orders were to kill you, but I wanted to have more fun with you first..." he stammered, his hand trembling as he gestured vaguely at the spikes. He took a half-step towards her, then stopped, frozen by the sirens' rising urgency. “No. I will let the jungle do the job. You die very slowly.” He turned back toward the harbor, disappearing back into the jungle, leaving her alone once more. The sirens faded, replaced by the returning rustle of the scavengers.