A dull pencil is greater than the sharpest memory. - an English proverb
“Is there any way to get a drink of water around here?”
The rasped words triggered a stream of coughing and gasping – a heavy price to pay for a useless question.
Glancing at the prisoner who had spoken, Coltan stole along the corridor, not surprised that no one answered the man. Coltan himself could hardly talk, even when necessary. His throat felt like it was filled with sand, and he would not even know his tongue existed if it was not for the way its swollen sides throbbed against the roof of his mouth.
Coltan moaned and put his hands over his ears. He would rather be deaf than listen to the water leak through the dungeon ceiling, a constant source of agony to every man inhabiting the black cells. Coltan had to force himself to keep his hands from touching the moist walls, sure that if he did touch them, he would be unable to resist the temptation to drink. He had watched dozens of men drink the contaminated water and die only a few hours later in fevered convulsions. Some of them had been happy to end their lives of darkness.
A shudder wracked the young man’s body as he continued through damp corridors. He hated working in the prison. He hated not having any drinkable water. More than anything, He hated Prince Rashawn Tolicon.