July 22, 1777 We are still working endlessly throughout the hot days. I was unfortunate to see one of the prisoners receive harsh treatment from the guards. While the poor soul was digging in the desert sand he fell over from exhaustion. They immediately threw him into the ‘hot box’. When they went to retrieve him, they found him dead; his skin had been stripped off and pieces of it were sticking to the metal sides. They said it was an accident but I find that hard to believe.
August 2, 1777 I'm getting very lonely here. I miss my family back home in London. At least I have the rats to keep me company as I sleep on the cold, damp floor of my prison cell. It's hard to believe that one of the things that use to scare me out of my skin is now my companion. They don't feed us as much as they used to, even though the daily bread and water that they used to feed us wasn't enough. It's been at least three days since I've had anything to eat, and I've been reduced to sucking up the water from the damp floor. Only lord knows where it comes from but I don't care, it's keeping me alive. Yet I only have this cockroach to eat.
August 12, 1777 My hunger is growing ever stronger. I have lost a great deal of weight and am ready to eat anything they throw my way. However they still make us work continuously and I can see the others are not fairing too well either. I have to get some sort of nourishment. The cockroaches have stopped coming around; perhaps they know what I have been up to. It's a matter of survival out here in this desert, and survive I will. Even if I have to eat the rats that keep me company. I shall miss them dearly, but their meat will satisfy me for a while and their blood shall be used to quench my thirst just until I can find some other food.
August 13, 1777 The rats didn't show up last night, I wonder why? I know I'm growing delirious, I'm talking to myself; when I woke up this morning I found human bite marks on my left forearm, caused by myself no doubt.
(I hear someone coming. I must hide my journal!)
It was one of the guards; he had come to bring me food, but I have done something very inhumane indeed.
I have killed him and stashed him in the same place I keep my diary. Now as I sit here writing I feast on the meat from his leg. I just thank the other prisoners for their loud moans and wails for covering up the poor man's screams.
October 4, 1777 Dear journal I had managed to lure three more guards into my trap since I last wrote, and each time I grow fond of the meat; it's getting hard for me to eat anything else. On a good note, however, I've regained all of my strength. Yet the rest of the guards are carrying out an investigation to figure out what happened to their comrades. This, however, is an opportunity for me, for I am running out of meat.
October 31, 1777 I have now, quite amazingly, eaten all of the guards and I sit here in my cell waiting for my fate. My supply of meat is decreasing rapidly. I am now down to a few arms and I haven't even left the bones. My hunger is coming back faster than expected and my own arm is starting to look good.
I'll just take a small portion to satisfy myself.
It hurt like hell but at least I’ve been able to feed myself one last time.
November 1, 1777 We have finally been freed, and I am going home today! My wife will be so happy to see me, as I her. It has been too long being locked up like this, and if I never find myself in a situation like this again it will be too soon. I have decided to resign from the English army. I feel like I could use the time with my family.
November 12, 1777 I am finally home. It is good to see my family again. And the scar on my arm has healed quite nicely. I still have nightmares about my ordeal. They are, however, going away gradually. Yet my hunger still remains, even though my wife fixes large meals for me to eat. I don't know how long I can hold it.
As a matter of fact, Tori and the children are beginning to look quite appetizing..........
By Umair Razi.
