Open Writing

He was tired, exhausted. It was time to give up; living like this was just too much effort.
How long had he been on the run? Fifteen years? No, nearer twenty at least.
He lay back on his bed in the safe-house, the sky outside was starting to lighten, and soon the sun would be rising.
They always came early, around dawn, and he was sure they would come today.
Twenty-one years, that was it. When the President was deposed by the generals he was 34, a successful engineer, with a wife, daughter, a home in the suburbs, and life was good.
He hadn't been concerned with politics, not even when the General had named himself President for Life. It was the death squads that changed everything. Friends who had criticised the coup disappeared and were never seen again, or were later found floating in the river.
He discussed the situation with his wife and they agreed to send Marion to stay with relatives over the border. It was heartbreaking. "Daddy, why am I going to stay with Auntie Valerie? Are you and Mummy coming soon?" How do you tell a five-year-old that she may never see her parents again? Isabelle refused to go, "we married for better or worse, and I don't intend to desert you when things get tough".
Oh if only she had gone! The bomb had been intended for him, but she was driving that day.
From then on he went underground, taking over the ragged bunch of thugs who called themselves the People's Liberation Army and turning them into ruthless and efficient killers.
The guerrilla war continued relentlessly with killings, ambushes, reprisals and counter-reprisals.
For the first years he found a kind of exhilaration. He regarded every soldier or agent of the regime killed as revenge for Isabelle, as if those deaths would bring her back.
To many he was a hero, a freedom fighter, the shadowy figure who would free their country from tyranny. For others, he was a terrorist, a murderer who tortured and killed without mercy or conscience.
Later the nightmares began. The dead haunted him as darkness fell. The innocents blown apart by car bombs, and others executed in reprisal raids, they all crowded in on him pointing accusing fingers. "Why us?" they demanded "Are you fighting for freedom, or to boost your own fame and notoriety?"
He shut his eyes and again he saw the soldier. He was only a young man, almost a child. They had brought him in, badly wounded. He lay on the floor watching them with frightened eyes. The soldier whispered something to one of his captors. "He knows he's dying, he wants to see a priest." They looked at him, expecting him to call Father Morgan. Instead, he stepped forward and fired several bullets into the young soldier's body. Now that young man haunted his waking hours still demanding that his confession be heard.
Once, at great risk to himself and his comrades he crossed the border to visit Marion. By now she was a young woman, studying at university, and she had changed her name. They sat and talked for a while but they had nothing in common. He felt she blamed him for the death of her mother, and maybe she was right. They parted and he never saw her again.
After years of a war that neither side could win there were peace proposals. He was offered safe passage out to one of several countries that had offered him sanctuary. Could he trust them? His closest colleagues pointed out the reasoning. "They mean it. If you're killed you'll become a martyr, and martyrs are hard to fight. If you leave they can depict you as a coward who is deserting his comrades, and then they can pick us off, one by one."
Now, he'd had enough, it was time to make contact again, to discuss that safe passage to the real world. His lieutenants were aghast at the idea. It would be treachery to the cause, he couldn't do it, they wouldn't let him do it.
It was at this point he knew that he was trapped, in a prison of his own making, and he was too worn out to even try to escape.
With a great effort he got out of bed. They would be here soon. As he shaved he studied the face in the mirror. He was about 55 but it was an old man who looked back at him. The hair was grey, the face haggard and drawn. What had happened these past 21 years? When had he last lived like a human being? When had he last been to the cinema or theatre, walked outside without bodyguards around him? When had he last slept with a woman who he actually loved?
He showered, put on clean clothes, he intended to receive his visitors with what little dignity he could muster.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door burst open. There were six of them, all armed. He knew them all.
"Good morning, I was expecting you."
They stood, guns pointing at him. They looked awkward and unhappy. This man had been their leader, their hero, and they would have gone to hell for him. And some of them had.
"You need your martyr don't you?"
The leader of the group nodded.
"I thought you did. I'm ready."