As he slumped over the small, foul bucket that served as a toilet in this hell hole, he began to wonder for the first time if it was all worth it. He couldn't possibly vomit anything else, surely it was all gone by now. He'd been at this for hours, days even, and since he hadn't eaten all day today, why did he keep retching?

The smell was horrid, but he had ceased to care quite some time ago. The headache and tremors were becoming too much to ignore, so he quit trying to hold himself up and flopped face down onto the hard floor. His cheek felt the roughness below it, like he was lying in mud. He wasn't too far off in his estimation. He was lying in a mixture of dust, mud, sand, and all those other things that hitched a ride on the bottoms of dirty boots. Adding the stuff that had splashed out of the bucket, well, it was a revolting mix. In fact, it was so obscene, he started to laugh. Really laugh. He laughed so deep and hard, his belly shook. He had to be amused, as feeling anything else would have driven him crazy. He couldn't believe he was in this situation. His laughter gave way to another coughing fit, which resulted in yet more heaving. He didn't have the energy or the will to lean over the bucket again, so he stayed where he had landed when he fell.

He had been without a drink for several days now, since they didn't let you drink in prison. Oh, he wanted one all right, wanted it very badly, and although he knew he couldn't get one, it didn't stop the wanting. He gingerly pushed himself up to roll over onto his back, grunting as the back of his head hit the floor. That probably wasn't the best idea, because now his hair had picked up all those things on the ground he didn't want to think too much about.

It started to get dark and cold in the cell, but he maintained only the smallest awareness of life going on round him. He heard the other prisoners moving about, coming and going, settling down for the night. His exhaustion began to overtake him, and letting out a deep breath, he closed his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if Vera knew what he was suffering through for her. No, he corrected himself, if she knew what he was suffering through because of what he did to her.

God, his knee was aching. He was stiff from lying there without moving for so long. Really though, his knee pain was nothing to the way his ribs were feeling now. In fact, they were hurting worse with every breath. He struggled to open his eyes. The best he could manage was to get one of them open part way, but what he saw made him close it tightly again.

"Okay, okay," he muttered to the guard who was kicking him in the ribs, "I'm getting up." He struggled into a sitting position, his hair and clothes peeling off the sticky floor. The guard quit kicking, but it felt as if he hadn't.

"C'mon, Bates. I haven't got all day," yelled the guard.

Bates painfully worked himself to his knees, and then stood up gingerly. He couldn't really make it all the way up, which left him a bit hunched over, but mostly upright. He was still shaking and nauseated, but managed not to sway too much.

"You don't have to kick me when I'm down," he muttered to the guard.

"If I kick you when you're down, you'll get up quicker," the guard answered.

The officer grinned at him. "Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"I'd love one," replied Bates, flashing his best smile.

The guard's grin faded. "You could make this easier, you know."

Bates's smile turned into a grimace. "Yeah, I know," he whispered, dropping his gaze to the floor.

The warder studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Get cleaned up," he said, as he turned and left the cell.

Bates sighed. Rib kicking aside, the guard, Officer Peters, was actually kind of a friend. They'd served in the war together and got along okay. In fact, Bates was actually a little happy to see him when he arrived a week or so ago. He wasn't all that happy anymore, because his situation was starting to sink in. He wasn't going anywhere for a while and certainly wasn't getting a drink any time soon.

Bates glanced up and took in his surroundings. He was far too unwell before now to even think about this new setting. There was a bunk bed, which he guessed meant he'd be getting a cellmate at some point. He didn't look forward to that; he was nothing if not private, and he knew he'd have to fight to keep it that way. Continuing his inspection, he saw the soiled bucket, a small desk, complete with chair, and that was it. The floor was filthy, as was he, when he thought about it. Looking at his prison outfit, he shuddered. Well, he'd looked worse before, and not too long ago. He guessed he probably smelled like he looked. He was having trouble taking this in; it was getting out of hand.

His leg about to give out, Bates stumbled over and fell down on the bunk. He hadn't noticed before how hard it was. He sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. It was another bad idea, as his hair was matted and sticky, which got his fingers stuck in the mess. He ripped his fingers out, bringing a few hairs with them. That made him angry. It didn't make much sense, but he didn't care. He couldn't control his anger, and began punching the lump of cloth that served as his pillow. It wasn't good enough. He couldn't rid himself of his frustration.

He got up and limped to the wall, driving his fist into it as hard as possible, which wasn't really very hard considering his current condition. Still, it was enough to hurt, so now, in addition to his knee and ribs, his knuckles began to throb. Bates allowed himself to sink down along the wall to the grimy floor. He couldn't bear it. He started crying, not knowing why exactly, just that he was miserable.

The effect of the alcohol withdrawal wasn't really that bad anymore. Finally, after a week of sickness, he felt better in that respect. No, he was miserable because of where he was and the things he'd done to bring him here. He had begun crying really hard now and, fighting to catch his breath, dropped his head into his hands. He couldn't feel anything beyond his anguish, he tried, and just couldn't. There was nothing else.

He sat there for a couple of hours. He cried until he lost track of time, until the tears dried up and he couldn't do it anymore. The warders left him mostly alone. He didn't know why, but he'd been too sick to move all week, so he thought probably that was the reason. Officer Peters looked out for him a bit, snuck in a little food here and there, but he was glad the others left him alone for now.

Alone. He was alone in the cell, alone in his misery, alone in the world. Sure, he had a wife and a mother, but neither wanted anything to do with him. They'd both made that very clear. Well, he liked it that way, didn't he? If he were alone, he didn't disappoint anyone. No one looked down on him for drinking all night and sleeping in the gutter before dragging himself to the regiment in the morning. No one cared if he got into stupid fights, the reasons forgotten, or if he neglected his wife.

Well, no one cared except him. It showed itself in that tiny, little spark of guilt in the back of his mind that always provided a reminder at the worse possible instant that he'd failed. It was that spark that made him confess to his wife's crime, and it was that spark bothering him at the moment.

His head was really pounding now, but he had no way of shutting out the torturous thoughts. He wished again, for the thousandth time, that he had died on that field in Africa. He wished he had given up more than a knee, wished that he had given it all up. Realizing again he couldn't change those results, he forced his thoughts in a new direction.

Maybe things could be different. He was already a week away from his last drink. He was going to be here for a while, and maybe he could take the opportunity to get off it altogether. He shivered. The cold air, which invaded the cell and settled over him like a blanket, started to bite. Of course, he'd have to find another way to deal with the nightmares, but maybe it was possible.

Perhaps this was just the kind of thing he needed, he thought, absent-mindedly rubbing his knee. Maybe he could clean himself up, quit drinking, and quit being such an arse. He was already doing this for Vera, to repay what he'd done to her. He knew he truly belonged here instead of her, that it was his fault and he had to pay for it.

Yet, in a moment of perfect clarity, he saw a different life. Maybe he could get a couple of books somehow and try to find some peace. He would have to fight hard for it, physically and emotionally, but, he thought, perhaps he could do it. Long overdue for some tranquility, maybe this was his opportunity, something that would make this worth it.

A little more than a year into the two-year sentence, he received his first letter from Vera. He had exchanged letters with his mother, who had seemed to forgive him, but this was his first dispatch from his wife. She'd wanted to let him know she was coming for a visit.

He was encouraged, actually. Off drink for over a year now, he felt as good as he could within this type of environment. He had a mutual understanding with the guards and other prisoners alike that they would leave each other alone. He'd had to fight for his uneasy peace at first, but he prevailed, and now he kept his head down and in his books, where it belonged.

Although he was friendly enough with Officer Peters and a couple of other prisoners, he kept himself to himself and tried not to say too much about anything. He liked it that way and it seemed to suit more than when he was freer and angrier with his comments. Yeah, he was still angry, there was no denying that. He still had the nightmares too. However, convincing himself it was his penance to pay for the past, he willingly accepted the cost.

He looked forward to seeing Vera, keen on the idea of making a go of his marriage and making a new life. Maybe he wasn't bursting with love for her, but they were married, and he had spent a year working on his discipline. Perhaps they could grow to love each other, or at least develop a mutual respect.

He had wanted to put the past behind them, and tried to write to her before, but the letters always came back undelivered and unopened. She'd obviously moved on from their shared quarters, and his mother had answered all inquiries with the news that she had neither seen nor heard from Vera since his trial. But now she was coming to visit, and he was anxious to share plans for a new life with her.

As he shifted on the chair in the dingy visitor's room while waiting for Vera to arrive, he noticed the reunions taking place round him. Most of the prisoners, visited by their wives or children, looked happy enough. They leaned toward each other and several couples whispered loving words. Bates imagined what that would be like, happily exchanging pleasantries with his wife instead of the accusations and yelling they usually fell back on. Maybe, after he got out, they could get started working on a family. He knew Vera might not make the best mother, and he probably wouldn't make a great father, but he could get his mother to help. He could work hard at it, and become a family man, a hard-working benefit to society.

He noticed her coming in then, and the sight of her made his smile falter a bit. She didn't look good at all. He sighed, suspecting her appearance was down to him, and fell back a bit into his old insecurities. He jumped up, rattling the chair a bit, and smiled evenly at her. She didn't return his smile, in fact, she sneered instead. He sighed again, running his fingers through his hair. Well, what did he expect, really? They hadn't spoken in a year, she would surely be imagining the same man who was dragged away from her, drunk and shamed, by the authorities.

As she hobbled closer, he got a much better look at her. Her clothes were old, torn, and hanging off her. Her gait was unsteady, drunk, he thought, while taking in her pale complexion, her once beautiful hair, now stringy and dirty. It looked like she had painted her face a day or so before, but it had faded off over time, and she also smelled like she hadn't bathed since then. He knew what she had been doing. His face started to hurt at the effort of maintaining his pathetic smile. As she dropped into the chair across the table from him, he slowly sunk into his own seat.

"Hello, Vera," he managed, without sounding too disappointed.

"Hello, John," she spit back at him, her venom not disguised at all.

Any hopes at a normal life began fading rapidly. He still hung on, though, praying that when he got out he could help her clean up, as he had done.

"I'm glad you've come. I've been...," he started.

"Glad," she interrupted, snorting her displeasure. "You won't be glad when I've had my say," she growled out to him though gritted teeth.

He tried to hold on to his temper. He'd had an easier time doing just that over the last year, but then, Vera wasn't in here with him. All his good work would be undone if he didn't continue to control himself, so he said nothing. He merely raised his eyelids at her as a signal to continue uninterrupted.

She took the hint. "I want you to write to your mother and tell her to give me some money," she began, her voice surprisingly strong. "I've lost our lodging, I have no money, and you owe me." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, resolved to let her get it all out now.

"You can't deny me," she continued, "it's your fault I'm in this situation anyway." He knew it was true, couldn't deny what she was saying at least, still, he refrained from speaking. She began to squirm uncomfortably in her chair a little, put off a bit by his silence. He'd never before stayed silent for very long when she began berating him. Yes, he had a subdued disposition, but she could usually get a rise out of him fairly easily.

She looked at him now through suspicious eyes, "well, are you going to do it?"

He finally answered her, "yes, I agree your current situation is my fault. Yet, my mother lives on a fixed income; I can't ask her to give anything up to keep you in drink."

"Perhaps I can get you something another way." He tried to offer her a smile, but it came out as a scowl. He couldn't help it; she always brought out the worst in him. "It might take a little while though," he hurried to add. He was thinking maybe Officer Peters could help out in some fashion, even as he hated to ask, he'd rather owe Peters than Vera.

But, Vera didn't want to wait, didn't want to hear any argument. Her voice volume rose as she stood up and leaned toward him. "Do you know what I've had to do to eat? I've had to sell myself because of you," she was yelling now. The others had turned toward them to watch in shock. He looked round and noticed a couple of eyebrows raised in his direction; saw the sly smiles on the faces of those who wished him ill.

"How is that any different from before," he muttered out, clamping his jaw shut before anything else slipped.

Her eyes flashed angrily as she levelled her gaze at him. She dropped back down into her seat. Sighing, she went on more quietly, "I figured you wouldn't help me. I tried to be a good wife to you, but you refused everything I've ever offered you."

He almost snorted out loud. Only exerting the greatest discipline, did he hold back any sound. Still, his face registered his surprise. Everything she offered him? She never offered him anything; all she ever did was take from him.

He was beginning to have trouble controlling his temper. He thought he had fixed that flaw, but now found that he apparently had a limit. He was a little disappointed with the realization, but there it was. All he could do was strive to raise the level it took before he lost it completely. He'd work on that later, he promised himself.

She went on, "you have ruined my life, gotten yourself discharged and imprisoned. There is no one to take care of me. You can't even get me the money I need now. I'm leaving you, John. You won't see me here again. You won't ever see me again. I hate you."

She rose to leave, and it occurred to him he never got a chance to share his plans for the future with her. He didn't want to any more though. He knew he didn't love her, but at the same time knew he would always be married to her. He felt trapped, and not for the first time.

Still, he felt he had to say something. "Vera," he began, reaching out to her. She leapt back.

"Shut up. Just shut up," she hissed. "Let me tell you something, I am what you made me. We both know I was beautiful and happy when you married me. Look at me now. Look at what you have done to me. You've reduced me to a common whore. I've wasted my life on you. I am ruined because of you. I'll have my revenge. You are nothing." She glared at him as she turned to leave, and in all their time together, he had never seen her so full of hatred.

The problem was that he knew she was right. He knew with certainty that every single thing she said was true. He started to shut down, falling back into the despair that was his constant companion before he'd let himself hope for the future. The only way out was for one of them to die, and his luck had never been good enough for him to think it would be her. Hell, he was wishing again that it would be him.

She looked back at him over her shoulder on her way to the door, "you bastard," she yelled out, branding him in front of everyone watching.

That kind of thing never got through to bother him too much before, not while drunk. But now sober, he felt her words like a dagger thrust forcefully into him. All those times he looked at her through a drunken haze, he never really saw her. He was seeing her now, and it made him angry. Vera as a mother, what had he been thinking? Desperation for a change in his circumstances had obviously clouded his judgement.

He should have known. Families and children were for decent people, not people like him. Happiness should be left to those who didn't destroy other's lives. He felt so stupid for thinking of a normal life. He wasn't in any position to have anything good, anything that would bring pride or even satisfaction. He should have known already, but the truth now dawned clearly, he was a fool to hope. Well, she had crushed his hope, and he promised he'd never let himself wish for anything good ever again. He hardened his soul. He could still be a productive member of society, but in that moment, he made a conscious effort to bury every emotion he had ever felt. He would never destroy anyone else, he promised himself. John Bates erected the thickest walls he could muster and swore that nothing, and no one, would ever get through again. "Never," he spoke aloud, sealing his vow, as the gate closed on the fortress of his heart.