Coyotepe

They call it Coyotepe. It means, "coyote caves" in Spanish.

A large fortress on the top of a hill, a reminder for the people of Nicaragua that they will never escape the war that doesn't exist to the outside world. Comandante Eski runs the prison, he is in charge of who gets tortured, when, and how it happens. Eski's wife Suzie is known by all the inmates as "La Bruja", the witch. She demands to be present for every torturing, and her bone chilling laugh can be heard throughtout all of the lower floors. There used to be a fourth floor down, but it collapsed. Rumor has it that Eski destroyed it to keep the body count unknown. As I walked through the dark, bat infested halls I read the engravings on the walls, "Quiero morirme", I want to die, and "Viva Nicaragua!" Long live Nicaragua. If the torture victim was to be killed, sometimes they were given the choice to engrave something, but depending on what you wrote, it could make your death slower and more painful. We are all political prisoners here, about seventy percent are men, and the rest are women. I got in because I assisted in the overthrow attempt of the government. Eski has personally hung me from the ceiling while his favorite torturer Carlos, or Chuck as they called him, slowly pulled off all the finger nails in my right hand. La Bruja watched my eyes fill with tear and her laugh rung in my ears. Once you enter the third floor down, you never go back up. There are no lights, no running water and no place use the bathroom. Women and men are crammed in the same cells, and there are twenty of us per room, the rooms are small. I heard Chuck used to be the President's personal butcher, the way he handled me as I dangled from the chains wrapped around my one arm, I don't doubt it. He has come to the cell doors before, which are made of pure concrete and steel bars, and said, "Your food tomorrow is compliments of your war hero." We didn't eat that day, whether it was true or not. Guards armed with AK47s and machetes dragged me back to my cell, the calluses of my bare feet were cut off with a hot blade, and the bloodied streaks stained the cold floor. Each guard held a wrist, and my head hung low enough that it scraped the floor as they walked. When we got back to the cell I was thrown in and the guards grabbed a lifeless body, and dragged him out. They delimbed the dead bodies in front of us, to make sure they were really dead. Only the women are released, sometimes, the only reason you are hearing this story is because my sister got out, but her soul stayed, buried in the second floor. Pray for us.

The story of my brother, Medardo.