I suppose my captors think nothing of my writings. It’s not even like they can read English anyway. And keeping a journal of my imprisonment helps me makes sense of this whole thing.
I never thought when I started my journey that I would end up a prisoner. Incarcerated for no reason other than I look different from my captors, who are all dark skinned and malign. My journey began with the hope of an innocent abroad: this was to be my big adventure; my defining moment.
And now I know the truth. It was always a bad idea from the start. I didn’t take the precautions I needed to take. How could I? Nobody could have warned me about this. Shortly after arrival here I was abducted from the safety of my home from home. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, so they could have taken me anywhere. I don’t think they wanted to hurt me, strangely, but I struggled so hard I suppose they had to calm me down somehow.
They probably managed to prevent me injuring myself by…wait, I know about this. This is the Stockholm syndrome. I’m starting to feel sympathy for my captors.
…
It feels like it’s underground, anyway, and there’s a constant hum of some kind of machinery. I’m trying to remember as much as I can for when I’m – if – I’m finally released. I gave up hope of rescue a long time ago. It’s hard to reckon time when you can’t see outside, but I guess I’ve been here a couple of years now. In the early days I wanted to be rescued in a blaze of glory. Then I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. Now, I just want to record as much as I can in case anyone ever gets to read this. Maybe some lessons can be learned.
They’ve tortured me when I couldn’t give them information. It wasn’t physical torture. More like them crawling inside my head. Very clever they are, with their mind games. But I can’t tell them our strategic weak points because I don’t know many and the ones I do will have changed in my absence. Still, they probe.
…
I sense something is different today. There’s an air of anticipation. I allow myself to hope that perhaps today will be a day of release.
…
I was wrong yesterday. There was nothing different about the day – just my futile hope that release might be at hand.
…
Six months since I’ve had the will to write my last entry. I think they know I’m no use to them now. I think they will kill me. They no longer look at me and the gaps between feeding are growing. I’m weak.
…
So, this is it. This alien cell that has been my home for so long – how long has it been now? – is to be vacated today. I sense it in my bones. I feel their presence before I can hear or see them. There is a malevolence that permeates the very air.
…
The blow to my head takes me by surprise and stuns me. But I remain conscious. Conscious of being dragged in an upward direction. I pray that the end will come swiftly and that my writings will be found, one day, by another of my own race.
As the huge doors open I see that my captors are already wearing what look like gas masks. Helmets. Some kind of protective device. Figures. I won’t need one where I’m going.
With a sudden jerk the two holding me throw me through the doors into the exposed and lifeless surface of Mars. I know my time is brief, even as the fire in my lungs spreads. I’ll be dead within two minutes.
…
“I’m afraid there is still no sign of the crashed vehicle, Ladies and Gentlemen of the press.”, said General Curtis.
“After three years, all attempts to locate the Mars-Intrepid 1 have failed. Major Proberty is considered lost, missing in action. He will be remembered as a hero.”
“General, does this mean there will be no more attempts to send a man on a solo mission to Mars?”
“That information is classified. No more questions, please.”
And with the turning off of the lights and the dispersal of the crowd, Major Proberty’s place in history began at once to fade.
In a hangar a few miles away Major Steve Robson began his preparations for his journey to Mars. His solo journey to Mars.