Drip by drip, like a faucet slowly running dry, you’re left with nothing but your own mind and body—and both of those will eventually be stamped out by this place.
My name is Prisoner 42. Of course, this isn’t my real name. But it’s the name I was given when I came into this prison in North Korea.
Every morning at 8 am, they call for “42.” When I stand up, I’m not allowed to look at the guards. I have to get up, put my hands behind my back and follow them to the interrogation room. I can see the shadows of the guards, but I’m careful to never appear as though I’m looking at them.
Even though the same thing happens every day, each day, I am still so afraid. Each time they call out for “42,” they beat and kick me. It hurts the most when they hit my ears. My ears ring for hours—sometimes days.
But for now, at least I’m alive.