The Valley

The Valley

They took my name first.

Then my uniform.

Then my voice.

It’s strange what becomes valuable when you’re stripped of everything — a breath, a blink, a heartbeat. I learned that quickly in this hellhole. Each morning, the sound of boots scraping concrete tells me I’m still alive… and that’s the only mercy I’ve come to expect.

The cell is small — just stone and rust and the smell of old blood. There’s a window, but it’s too high to reach. I can see the light shift through it, though. It helps me tell time, helps me remember there’s still a world outside this tomb.

They bring us out once a day.

That’s when the beatings start.

I don’t know their language. I only know their rhythm — the way their words rise like thunder before the whip cracks. The sound of it still rings in my ears even when they stop.

When the leather hits, it feels like the world folds in half. My back — what’s left of it — burns like open fire. Sometimes I pass out and wake up on the same blood-stained floor. Sometimes I don’t remember how I got there at all.

But today is different.

Today, they came for all of us.

They dragged me by my wrists into the courtyard, where the air stank of sweat and rot. There were others — my squad. What’s left of them, anyway. Five men, maybe six. We were tied at the wrists, forced to kneel in the dirt.

The guards circled us like wolves. One of them, tall with a scar running down his neck, shouted something sharp and guttural. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the tone — demand.

He wanted information.

I could tell from the way he pointed at our uniforms, at the patches on our sleeves.

Operations. Coordinates. Names.

We stared at the ground. None of us spoke.

Then one of ours broke.

Harris.

His voice was weak, trembling — “Please, I’ll tell you—”

He didn’t finish.

The tall guard pulled the trigger before the sentence could breathe. Harris fell forward, his face hitting the dirt. I can still see the small cloud rise from where he landed — just dust, but it felt like his soul leaving the earth.

The guard didn’t even blink.

He just stepped over Harris’s body and kept shouting.

I felt my stomach twist, my hands clenching uselessly behind my back. The man beside me — Corporal Denning — muttered something under his breath. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a curse. It didn’t matter.

The tall guard pointed again, this time at Denning. “You!”

His accent carved through the air like a blade.

Denning lifted his head, face swollen, lips cracked. “I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They didn’t wait for him to finish either.

Two guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him into the building. His boots scraped against the ground as he shouted — a mix of pleading and pain. The sound echoed down the hallway until it was swallowed by silence.

We all knew what that silence meant.

Hours passed.

They left us there — tied, kneeling, surrounded by flies and heat. My throat felt like sandpaper. My tongue was dry, swollen. We hadn’t had water in two days. Maybe more. Time had stopped meaning anything.

When they finally untied us, it wasn’t freedom.

They dragged us to a row of wooden posts hammered into the ground — their execution yard.

They tied our wrists behind the posts and forced us to stand. No sitting. No rest. Anyone who sat would be shot on sight. The bodies hanging limp on nearby posts were proof of that.

The sun was merciless. My uniform clung to me like wet paper. Sweat stung the open cuts on my back. The air itself seemed to burn.

Flies gathered on the blood.

Birds circled above — waiting.

I tried not to look at the bodies beside us, but it was impossible. Some were ours. Some weren’t. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Hold on,” I whispered to the man next to me — Private Lowell. His head was bowed, his breathing ragged. “They’ll come for us. Just a little longer.”

He let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough. “Come for us? They’ve forgotten us, Sarge.”

His voice cracked. “No one’s coming.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that our unit would never abandon us. But I couldn’t lie to him. Not anymore.

“I don’t believe that,” I said instead. “We’re not done yet. We’re soldiers. We hold.”

He turned his head slightly, enough for me to see the whites of his eyes — red, bloodshot, hopeless. “We’re not soldiers anymore,” he said. “We’re ghosts.”

He tried to shift his weight, but his legs gave out. His knees hit the dirt.

The guards noticed immediately.

They walked over — two of them — laughing. One kicked him in the ribs; the other pressed a boot to his neck. Lowell let out a low groan, barely audible.

Then came the gunshot.

Short. Cold. Final.

I flinched, my body tightening against the post.

The birds scattered at the sound — then circled back.

One of them landed near Lowell’s body. Pecked once, twice.

Then the others joined.

I looked away, my chest trembling.

My legs were starting to shake. I knew what was coming.

The longer I stood, the more my body betrayed me.

I tried to shift, to lean into the post, but the rope bit into my wrists. The pain helped me stay awake — a reminder I was still here.

When you’ve been this close to death, your mind drifts — not away, but inward. The body breaks, but the soul remembers.

I thought about my wife, Anna. How she’d smile when I came through the door, her hands still covered in flour from baking bread. I could smell it now — warm, sweet, safe. Our daughter, Lily, running through the hallway in her socks, shouting, “Daddy’s home!”

That sound used to mean something.

Now it just hurt.

I remembered Sunday mornings, sunlight through the kitchen window, the radio humming softly. I’d sit there, coffee in hand, and tell myself I’d never take it for granted again.

Funny how the small things become sacred when you’re about to lose them.

The guards walked the perimeter again, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. They laughed and smoked like it was any other day.

I wanted to hate them.

But I didn’t have the energy left.

Instead, I looked up at the sky — at the birds circling above us. They were patient. They knew death would feed them eventually.

My knees trembled again. I clenched my jaw and whispered under my breath, “Don’t you fall. Don’t you dare.”

The sun was beginning to sink, the air turning gold. The light made the blood on the ground shimmer like rusted metal.

Denning’s screams still echoed somewhere in my head. Harris’s body lay just a few yards away. Lowell’s… well, there wasn’t much left to say.

And still, no one came.

It was then I started to talk to God again.

Not out loud — they’d hear. But quietly, deep in my chest.

“Lord,” I said in my thoughts, “I don’t know if You still hear me. But if You do… I’m tired. I’ve done all I can.”

I tried to remember the prayers I used to say. They came back to me like distant songs:

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

That one stayed with me.

I mouthed the words again and again until they felt real.

The night crept in slowly.

The guards retreated to their tents, leaving only one to watch over us. I could hear him humming softly — some tune I didn’t know.

The stars came out, faint at first, then brighter. They looked just like they did back home. I wondered if Anna was looking at them too, holding Lily close, telling her that Daddy would come home soon.

Maybe she still believed it.

Maybe she still prayed for me.

I hoped so.

Because somewhere between the pain and the silence, I realized that was all I wanted — not revenge, not rescue. Just one more chance to tell them I loved them.

My body was shaking now, my vision fading in and out. I could feel fever crawling under my skin. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat felt like it was cracking my ribs from the inside.

The guard walked by again, his boots crunching over the gravel. He stopped in front of me and grinned. Said something in his language — mocking, maybe curious.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t even lift my head.

He laughed, spat near my feet, and walked away.

When he was gone, I let out a shaky breath.

“Hold on,” I whispered to myself. “Just a little longer.”

But deep down, I knew.

There was no cavalry coming.

No gunships, no heroes.

Just me, the stars, and the circling birds.

My knees buckled once — just a tremor — but I caught myself against the post. The rope dug deeper into my wrists. I could feel the skin tearing.

Tears welled in my eyes — not from pain, but from everything else.

The silence. The loneliness. The knowing.

I looked up again, and for the first time, I saw the birds clearly — black against the fading light, their wings gliding like shadows over water.

They looked peaceful.

Free.

A sound broke the air — distant thunder, maybe? No… it was too rhythmic. Too sharp.

Gunfire?

I lifted my head, heart hammering. The guard turned too, raising his rifle. Another sound followed — the dull thump of an explosion far off.

For a moment, hope flared. Maybe… maybe this was it.

Maybe they’d found us.

But the sky remained empty. The noise faded. And the guard laughed again, shaking his head. False alarm.

The hope hurt worse than the beating.

The hours dragged.

My legs gave out again and again, but I forced myself up each time. I wasn’t going to die kneeling in the dirt like an animal. If this was it, I’d face it standing.

My mouth was too dry to pray now, but the words stayed in my mind — Yea, though I walk through the valley…

It was all I had left.

Sometime near dawn, the world went quiet.

No guards shouting, no wind, no birds. Just stillness.

The light on the horizon was soft, the kind that makes everything look gentler than it is.

I closed my eyes and thought of home again. Anna’s hands. Lily’s laughter. The sound of church bells in the distance on Sunday mornings.

The smell of rain on the pavement.

I could almost feel it — the warmth of it on my face.

My legs trembled one last time. I tried to straighten, but the strength was gone. My body sagged forward, the rope catching me before I hit the ground.

I stayed like that, breathing shallow, vision blurring.

And then, I whispered — to God, to the wind, to anyone still listening:

“Though I walk through the valley… I will fear no evil.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

I didn’t fight it.

I looked up once more — at the circling birds, at the pale dawn breaking over the camp. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid.

Whether rescue came or not didn’t matter anymore.

I wasn’t waiting for them.

I was waiting for peace.

The world faded to light.

And the birds kept circling.