My bony fingers slowly strum the golden guitar. Wafts of the stale night air circulate around my tiny frame. My shoulders and neck are sunken into my body with the weight of guilt on them. Nowhere can I escape the memories. Nowhere can I escape my guilt. Alone, I am always found. Alone, I will always be. My death looms in the near future. Finally, an end to my misery.Foreshadowing my lonely death, my skin changes to blue. The guitar is the only ray of color in my life. The only way to convey myself to the outside world. The only way I find peace and solitude within my Hell.
Two years before, I was captured by the Spanish Armada and imprisoned for my conspiring against them. Being from the United States, they questioned my presence the whole time I lived in Spain. I had moved my family here on a mission from the US government, a secret mission to detect foreign treatment of prisoners. As an undercover agent, I began my mission by working in a prison on the coast. Months later, in the middle of the night, members of the Spanish Armada came to my house and took me in for questioning. My wife and daughter were slaughtered when I did not comply with the questioning.
Sitting in the solitude of the prison cell, I wait for my death. My bony fingers slowly strumming the golden guitar, a lonely song reverberates throughout the solid walls. Death cannot come soon enough. Although the longing for death consumes me, I will not relent. I will not let the beasts break me down. I will strum my guitar for days to come. Days to come until my death.
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