A blank page. A license to do anything.
I take it in my hands again, flip it over to make sure I didn't miss anything.
The page is blank, my freedom certain.
I will never die.
 
The walls are lined with guard towers, the gate covered with razor wire.
It's cold, and the furnace provides almost no heat. My fellow inmates huddle next to me, trying to get a little closer to the fire. They're going to make me chop wood again tomorrow, and the pain in my leg has gotten worse. I'm scared to die here, in the frozen waste. Father died due to an infection months ago, Leon beaten to death with a gun for trying to protect me. Florentina was raped to death - I still don't know if it was the cold or the abuse, but that was when she died. True to their ideology, the soldiers shared her equally. After months of travel through the Soviet Empire, the fear of death seems a silly thing, but it's still there. The pain in my leg gets worse occasionally. Maybe the wound is infected.
I will escape Camp 201, this I am sure of. Comrade Stalin has a lot to answer for.
 
Memory's a funny thing. You can stare at a point in space, and the point will start moving. You'll follow it and follow it until you're interrupted - you'll refocus your eyes and realize you've been staring at a person. A point in space that laughs and talks and looks at you funny when you try to explain what goes on in your head. It's okay if she doesn't understand, I don't either. It'll be over soon, either way. I probably shouldn't tell her. It's not exactly fear of death, it's something else.
 
My neighbors all pity me. They think the blank page is a mistake, an oversight. I know it's not. The date of my death wasn't written because it does not exist. My life are my own.
 
My killer has blue, cold eyes. He stares at me, and for the first time I realize I may have been the first to die at his hand. Still, his expression is steady. Blood drips noisily, ruining the silence. It runs from his warhammer to the ground, creating a small puddle. I look upwards and close my eyes. The pact will remain steadfast. I will be brought back. Death is but a temporary obstacle. I can already hear the crackling, the burned and ashen smell of where I'm headed. It's alright, I'm not staying for long.
I do not fear the flames.
 
My knife flashes across my throat, and I can feel blood bubbling out. I feel strangely serene, detached from the pain. Rest now, you've had a long life.