by Samira Ahmed
Jake.
I only saw him for a few minutes when they first brought me here. Doubts muddle my thoughts. Does the Director know? Is Jake already in custody—is that why he hasn’t shown up? Is the Director playing me, trying to trap me in a lie? A spasm of fright passes through my body and over my face. He sees it.
“So, you do know. Tell me. It’s easy. Think of all the people you’ll be saving with a few words. Say the names,” the Director coaxes. “It doesn’t have to be painful.” He’s softened his voice like he’s the good cop now.
“And what’s in it for me?” I ball my free hand into a fist and pound my left thigh with it. Keep talking. Stall. Figure a way out of this.
The Director smiles. “I knew you could be reasonable. You’ll find it’s to your advantage to be friends with me. I believe I mentioned certain perks, shall we say, for you and your family—like unlimited hot water, for instance. Perhaps a visit with that boyfriend of yours. I’m quite a generous man, you know.”
“So I name names and—”
“And you calm down the kids you’ve riled up, get them back to their gardening and flirting. Things settle down. And you tell me if anyone else is agitating to do anything. It’s a win-win.”
“You want me to tell you if anything else is being planned?”
“I already have someone who will serve that purpose. One of your little friends was all too happy to make a deal and save himself from the consequences of your so-called protest the other night. And those consequences will come down, like a hammer, on all of you. But you have the power to lessen the blow.”
Abdul. Of course it was him.
The Director continues. “I want you to be smart. It seems like your little acts of resistance have given some people ideas. Traitorous ideas. I want those ideas to die. I want you to squash those plans so no one else gets hurt. So no one else has to suffer on your account.”
My dad. Has the Director hurt someone else? Mom? Ayesha? He wants me to worry. He wants me to ask. I don’t. Rage is burning inside me. And fear. But I won’t ask.
He looks at me with expectant eyes. He’s waiting for an answer. So I’ll give him one.
“No,” I whisper. The Director rises from his chair. I think he’s going to walk away, but he turns back and slaps me hard across the face. My head falls to the side from the force of his hand, and I taste blood in my mouth. My face stings and my cheeks burn. I’ve been sheltered from violence my whole life, any real violence. There’s no way I’m cut out to resist it. How do people do this? How can I do this?
The Director takes a few steps away, keeping his back to me. “Now see what you’ve made me do? I’m not a violent man. I don’t like to treat women—let alone girls—this way, so I’m going to give you another chance.”
The salt from my tears mingles with the blood on my lips. I spit on the floor. “Not violent?”
“Yes. You see, I’m a reasonable human being. I’ve run this place with kindness and compassion. Tried to build a community. And you”—he whips back around toward me—“you’ve brought nothing but upheaval and violence.”
Does he actually believe this? Does he really think he’s in the right, like he’s some kind of saint, a messiah for the forlorn?
“Remember your friend? The idiot who threw himself at the fence like a goddamn moron? He’s dead, and that’s on you and your infantile stunts. Or have you forgotten him already? Used him as a pawn for your childish rebellion, did you?” The Director scoffs. “And you think I’m the monster.”
My mouth falls open. The blood drains from my body. “I didn’t,” I whisper, then swallow my words. I’ll never forget Soheil or the buzz of the fence and his scream and his limp body.
“Didn’t think about that poor sap, did you? Too busy pretending to be brave and revolutionary. I told you from day one that actions have consequences. Now tell me who is writing the blog posts and sneaking them out.”
“I can’t. I can’t.” Tears fall down my face. My cheeks are hot, and my lips pulse with pain.
The Director stomps back to my chair and twists his hand around my ponytail, pulling my head back. “You dumb, stupid bitch.” He shoves his face into mine, spit spewing from his lips onto my skin. “Do you have any idea what I can do to you? What I can have done to you?”
I can’t breathe. The note my parents got. The threats? It was all him. My parents. Ayesha. Her family. Everyone in this place. Like fish caught in a net, struggling against the cords that trap us, trying to squirm free, not realizing we’re already dead.
“One more chance, Miss Amin. Understand? You’re lucky I’m such a patient man. But my patience has a limit.”
I look at the floor and nod.
I hear other people enter the room. “Clean her up. Get her back to the brig,” the Director barks, and marches out.
A guard uncuffs me and yanks me to my feet.
I rub my wrists and bring my fingers to my mouth. My face is burning, but the tips of my fingers are cold, and they feel good against my sore lip. I close my eyes and shiver. Goose bumps spring up on my arm.
“I can take her from here.” Another person enters the room. It’s Fred.
Fred and I watch the other guard leave.
“My God, Layla. Are you okay?”
“No,” I whisper.
I wipe the crusted blood from the edge of my lip with the hem of my T-shirt. “I think I bit my cheek.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fred says, and cups my elbow with his hand. I flinch. “Your lip is going to hurt for a while.”
“It’ll match the bruises from earlier.”
“Let’s get you back. I’ll find an ice pack and a washcloth for you.”
I nod. I take a step but wobble like I’m wearing high heels.
“Lean against me; it’s okay.” Fred offers his arm.
We walk out into the cool night.
“I thought the Director’s security were going to take me to a black-ops site. Or else why the hood?”
“He’s trying to scare you.”
“He’s succeeding.”
“No. You’re succeeding.”
“Me? Soheil died because of what we did. Because of me.”
“No. Soheil died because of what the Director did. Because of what the president did. Because of what this country is doing. But it’s not going to last. That protest, Soheil dying—it’s a bridge too far for the public. And what he’s doing to you, and—it’s not just Jake and me on your side. A lot of us—this is not what we signed up for. We’re National Guard, and we were reassigned without choice.”
“Where is Jake?” I don’t bother to hide the hurt and desperation in my voice.
Fred shakes his head. “The Director still trusts Jake, and he’s trying to use that to his advantage. Following orders. Hang on a little longer. You have allies. He can’t take you off-site. Not with all those reporters and protestors right there, beyond the fence. And if an ambulance comes through those gates, it will be bedlam outside. You can feel the undercurrent; we’re sitting on a powder keg. It’s too dangerous for him to do anything really stupid. He knows that.”
“Dangerous for him? Because right now it feels pretty fucking dangerous for me.”
“He’s being watched. The High Command guys—they’re all getting heat from the War Department and the president.”
I nod. But I find no solace in Fred’s assurances.
It’s still night. Dark and quiet are all around, such a contrast to the screaming pain inside me. I close my eyes for a second, allowing Fred to lead me back to the brig and my holding cell and the terrible aloneness that waits for me. Through the silence, I hear my mom’s voice, reciting her dua. I feel her breath as she blows the prayer over me. I open my eyes and look up into a velvety blanket of bright stars, and it reminds me of a line my dad wrote: You need only glance to the vastness of the sky and the multitude of the stars to know the infinite depth of our love.
“Get up.” The Director’s voice echoes off the walls in my
small cell. He kicks the bed when I don’t rise immediately. “I said, get up!” he roars.
Slowly I sit up and push my back against the wall, drawing my legs close to my body. I rest my chin on my knees. My jaw still smarts. My swollen cheek aches—it’s probably ten different shades of blue and purple right now. My mouth tastes like blood and metal. I eye the door, and then my eyes dart back to the Director’s face. There’s nowhere to run; I draw my legs closer into me, spinning an imaginary cocoon around my body.
The Director paces from one end of the room to the other—a journey of five steps. Sweat shines on his forehead. He rubs the back of his neck; his face reddens with each step until he’s almost crimson. “Thanks to you and your antics, I’m in a bit of a bind now.”
I look up but don’t speak.
“You see, when your little stunt resulted in the death of that idiot friend of yours, Mr. Saeed, the lying, crooked press—they twisted it to make it seem like it was my fault, like I pushed that fool against the fence, when we all know it was your invisible hand that drove him to his death.”
I flinch when he says Soheil’s name. How dare he. I want to slap the words from the Director’s mouth, but I don’t have the strength to do it.
The Director continues, either not noticing the look of disgust on my face or not caring. “So now instead of celebrating the world being rid of one more vermin, the secretary of war is breathing down my neck because the president has him by the balls. Mobius is supposed to be a model. Do you hear me? Do you understand? A model camp. My camp.”
I continue to stare silently.
“And now all these damn fake-news people—they’ve raised you up to be some kind of hero. A freedom fighter, they’re calling you.” The Director takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and waves it in my face, then begins to read. “‘Miss Amin has given hope to the Muslims of America—indeed, to all democracy-loving Americans. Her brave actions from inside the concentration camp have given the Occupy protestors courage to continue even in the face of the horrific death of Soheil Saeed, who was electrocuted by the live fence surrounding Mobius that the Director failed to shut down during a legal assembly.’
“See how they twist it? How they lie? Hope, they say. Courage. You’ve brought nothing but death and chaos. You think your actions have given people hope? They’re fools. They don’t know what to do with hope. They don’t want courage. They don’t even want freedom. They think they want it. But hear me, Miss Amin. People want to be told. They are more than happy to do what they’re told. Leave them alone with their hope and freedom for five minutes and they’ll come running back to order and rules. People want to be happy in their ignorance. Give them aisles full of processed, fatty foods and a hundred channels on TV and put the fear of God in them. Give them an Other to hate, and they will do what they are told. And that’s what keeps our nation safe. Strength and security.”
My eyes follow the Director’s frenetic pacing. I practically see his mind spinning, his thoughts beginning to derail. Silence seems my safest choice.
“But in a way, you’ve gotten what you want, haven’t you—the masses bleating for your freedom. What now? We open the gates and let all you ragheads roam free? Another terrorist will blow something up somewhere, and soon enough, people will be chanting for your heads, again. And you’ll be right back here while the president soothes the jangled nerves of the masses who will gladly exchange their freedom for security. It’s already done. We know everything. What books you check out. Who you text. Who you sleep with. We know you better than you know yourselves. That’s what kept us safe from you lot and your bombs and your creeping Sharia. Since 9/11, the fear of the entire nation allowed us to pass laws that brought us into your homes and your bedrooms and your thoughts.
“What you don’t understand, what you’re too damn stupid to know, is that when you appease a man’s conscience, you can take his freedom and he will thank you for it.
“You think you can win this? You think you can beat me? I could give you your martyrdom. I could burn you at the stake in the middle of the desert with the cameras watching, and in two days you’d be old news. And everything would be exactly as it is now. And your death would mean as much as any other death—sound and fury signifying nothing.”
The Director stops in the middle of the room and spins his head around. My silence weighs on him. I see it in his face, his fury rising every time he looks into my eyes.
“And now what? Can’t find the inspiration to speak?”
I take a shaky breath. “What do you want me to say?”
“Beg for your life.” The Director strides toward my cot, towering over me.
Beg for my life.
Beg.
Accept tyranny.
Bow to a false god.
“No,” I whisper.
I know what’s coming next. I twist my head away, but I’m too late. He slaps my face, and his clunky gold signet ring splits my lip, and blood pours down my chin. I scream, and it echoes off the walls. I wipe the blood from my face and hear my screams bounce back to my ears.
You’re not alone.
Be strong.
Live.
Fight.
The Director grabs my arm and yanks me from the bed, hurling me to the floor. My elbow slams against the hard surface. A scream rips through my body.
The door to my cell opens. Jake walks in, eyes wide. A wave of horror passes over his face when he sees me on the floor. He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, then turns squarely to the Director and says, “You need to leave now.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?”
“Corporal Jake Reynolds. National Guard of the United States. And you are out of order. I suggest you step aside.” He unholsters his weapon and steps between the Director and me.
I am bleeding and sobbing and near hyperventilating, and I have never been so thankful to see another human in my life.
“I can have you court-martialed for this, Corporal. She is a prisoner, and in this facility, I am the law.”
“This is still the United States of America, and no one is above the law. The mistreatment of prisoners is a crime under both international law and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And you are in gross violation of both.” Jake’s voice is deep and confident, but I can see a slight tremble in his fingers. When he speaks, he looks past the Director, not right in his face.
The Director smooths his hair and tucks in his shirt and laughs. But his laugh is nervous, with fear in it. He grasps the handle of the door.
Before walking out, he turns to me, eyes on fire, and says, “You’re the fucking Angel of Death.”
Too stunned and wrecked to move, I sit with my hands folded in my lap. Jake gingerly puts his arm around me and helps me back to the bed. Then he steps away, talking on a radio. I can hear the words, but they sound jumbled to my ears, incoherent. I’m holding an ice pack to my bruised face. I can’t stop shivering. I lick my split lip—salt and blood and tears.
Jake walks back over, grabs the blanket, and puts it around my shoulders. “You’re in shock,” he says gently. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come back sooner. I should never have left you.”
I look up at him. “Jake,” I whisper. But no more words come out. My voice is a dry scratch. I take a sip of water from a bottle that Jake hands me. The coolness of the water feels good against my raw throat.
“He’ll pay for what he’s done. I swear to you. I will make him pay. It’s over for him.”
I nod, but it’s barely a consolation.
For the second time, the door flies open, and Fred rushes in, stopping short when he sees me. “Layla. Shit.” Then he looks at Jake and says, “We should have stopped him.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ll never forgive myself. Fuck orders. I should’ve kept you safe, Layla.” Jake puts his arm around me.
I’m confused, in a maelstrom. The world is spinning and I can’t see or understand anything.
Jake holds me. I cling to him. I’m not sure for how long. Minutes or hours. Day or night.
Apparently, Fred left to get a doctor. I didn’t even notice he’d gone. He returns with a woman I’ve never seen. She’s dressed in uniform like the other guards, but she’s older. Flecks of gray salt the dark brown bob that curves around her heart-shaped face. She carries a leather satchel. She kneels in front of me.
Her voice is soft and gentle. “My name is Dr. Han. I’m a soldier, like Corporal Reynolds, and a medical doctor. I’d like to take a look at your lip and cheek, if that’s okay with you.”
I nod, and Dr. Han opens her bag and reaches for a pair of latex gloves. She takes out a small light that she asks Jake to hold above my face. Then she lightly sponges away the dried blood. She runs her fingers over the bruise on my cheek and turns my chin toward the light. I wince. It hurts like hell.
“You have some pretty deep bruises. But nothing broken. That lip is going to hurt for a while, but it’s already stopped bleeding.” She points her pinkie toward my mouth, tracing an outline of my lips in the air. “We can skip stitches. You’ll need to keep it clean. For now I want you to go back to your trailer and rest and keep ice on that face and lip to try to bring down the swelling. I’ll give you some meds for the pain.”
“Okay.” I raise my hesitant fingers to my cheekbone.
Dr. Han smiles warmly. “You’re a brave young woman. Can you tell me what happened when the Director came into your cell? The more detail you can give me, the better. And I’m going to record what you say, okay?”
“I understand,” I say, and tell her everything that happened. How the Director tried to get me to cooperate, the times he hit me, his threats. Jake keeps one hand wrapped around mine. I see his jaw clench when I speak, and his neck go wiry. I’m sure he feels guilty, but honestly, I don’t even have the energy for it, or to imagine anything other than this nightmarish reality that is actually my life.
“I think that’s all I need.” Dr. Han stops her digital voice recorder.
Fred enters the room and holds up a small thumb drive. “I got the recordings,” he says to Jake and Dr. Han.
