Sworn Enemies, Secret Lovers

by Eve Rabi

  She nods. “When I get out of here, Megan, I’m gonna buy you a drink. Or two. Or three.”

  I manage a tiny smile.

  “What’s your favorite drink? Merlot?”

  “White, sparkling,” I say. “I kinda like the bubbles.”

  She chuckles. “A soldier who handles machine guns likes white sparkling wine because of the bubbles?”

  My smile grows bigger.

  “A smile from Megan. Finally. Fantastic! Me, I like a good Shiraz. Or a good vodka. Or a good gin. Or a good one of each – all in one taaaall glass.”

  We chuckle. When we look up, we see Him looking at me. He’s obviously heard my conversation about my failed IVF. Shit!

  He chats to Leeanne for a while about … nothing, then walks away.

  ***

  Leeanne is in my bed trying to read a jihadist leaflet in Arabic. Unsuccessfully.

  “What does a guy do with seventy virgins?” she asks. “That’s like guaranteed bad sex for seventy nights. I don’t get it.”

  I smile as I towel-dry my wet hair.

  We are interrupted when he knocks and enters my room. I stiffen at the sight of him. At the sight of him in my room. What the hell is he doing here?

  Leeanne scrambles to sit up. “Eh, hi, Reed,” she says, her eyes darting between him and me.

  He nods and looks at me. “Eh, can I talk to you?” he asks in a humble voice.

  “No.”

  He walks over and stands right in front of me, a determined look on his face.

  Disconcerted by his invasion of my personal space, I pause with my towel-drying and attempt a glare.

  He looks pointedly at Leeanne.

  “Oh, well, eh … I’ll eh … I’ll say goodnight.” Leeanne scurries out of the room.

  He looks at me again. I walk over to the mirror and brush my hair slowly. What could he possibly want to say to me that he hasn’t said already?

  “I’m not here, tomorrow,” he says.

  My hair has my undivided attention now.

  “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I start to look around in one of my drawers.

  “Megan! Look at me.”

  “Say what you want to say and leave,” I say with cold control.

  “I want to ...” he takes a deep breath, “I want to apologize.”

  I sigh. Not again.

  “You’re making this hard, Megan.”

  I spin around to face him. “You want me to make it easy for you?”

  He shifts around and scratches his head at my bolt of lightning. When I reach to open another drawer, he grabs hold of my wrist.

  I glare at his hand on me. “Don’t … touch … me!”

  “Then talk to me.”

  I look at him and inhale deeply. “I have nothing to say to a rapist and a kidnapper.”

  Slowly, he removes his hand and gives a succession of small nods. “I deserved that.”

  “You deserve more. You deserve to be castrated. You deserve to be shot. Coalition forces will find me and when they do, they will throw your ass in jail. Know about the Geneva Convention? Know what it is? You’ve kicked it out of play, you violated it.”

  He looks silently at me.

  “I trusted you and you betrayed my trust. You are scum. A lowlife. Lower than a lowlife. You deserve to die. I hope I get to put a bullet between your eyes. It will be a pleasant task. Looking forward to that day gives me hope and keeps me going. To me, you’re like a … a … a boil, a blister. Only relief is to lance it.”

  He visibly squirms at my words, then turns and strides out of the room.

  Trembling, I sink to my chair. To steady my shaking hands, I sit on them. I’ve just confronted my rapist.

  A few moments later, Leeanne creeps into my room. “What happened? What did you say to him? Tell me!”

  “He … he did most of the talking.” That is so not true.

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I passed his room and the door was ajar. He’s like, sitting on a chair with his head in his hands.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, good.”

  “He looked so … so beaten.”

  “You feeling sorry for him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck, Leeanne? How can you feel sorry for him? He hurt me.” Tears well up in my eyes.

  “Okay, okay. You’re right. I’m sorry, okay?”

  I nod.

  ***

  I sit on the floor of my room and stare vacantly at a wall. Been doing that a lot lately.

  When I look up, he’s looking down at me.

  “I knocked,” he says as he hands me a bag.

  I take the bag and place it next to me.

  “Open it,” he says.

  “Later.”

  “Open it now.”

  Tight-lipped, I open the bag and gasp. Chocolates, a bottle of red wine, a bottle of sparkling white wine, and a stuffed toy kitten. The kitten looks and feels real – white, soft as down, and with turquoise eyes. I pick up the kitten and clutch it to my breast. She meows when I squeeze her. I gasp with delight. How I wish she was real.

  When I realize he’s watching me, I reluctantly put down the kitten and give the wall my attention again. After a few moments of silence, I silently remove the bottle of white wine from the bag, twist off the cork, and take a swig. It’s dry. So dry, it’s like sucking on a lemon. But it’s wine, pain relief, so I guzzle it.

  Reed watches me silently. After a while, he sits on a chair.

  Did I ask you to sit, asswipe?

  I reach for my kitten and hold her close as I quaff more awful wine.

  “Shall I get you a glass?” he asks.

  I ignore him and continue drinking. Soon I’ve polished three quarters of the bottle, and I feel relaxed.

  “I need a cigarette,” I murmur without looking at him.

  He takes out his pack of Camels and proffers it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a Zippo and lights my cigarette.

  I take a big drag as he lights up one for himself.

  “I am sorry, Megan.”

  “Aw c’mon!” I say. “Why ruin a good session of binge drinking with a half-assed apology? A fake –”

  “It’s not fake, Megan.”

  “Do me a favor – don’t call me ‘Megan.’ That’s for … for … family … friends … my husband … eh … human fucking beings.”

  His eyes turn to slits and his drag on his cigarette is long.

  “You are none of the above. You’re a fucking snake.”

  “Hey, I saved your life!”

  “You saved me for you!”

  “I did not! You’re not my type.”

  “Oh yeah? What is your type? Lemmee guess: defenseless, yes-master-no-master-three-bags-full-master kinda woman? Huh? And if she isn’t, no problem; you just beat the shit out of her, or – and this is a biiig ‘or’– you can rape her.”

  He jerks upright, the cords in his neck showing.

  “What? Have I offended you, master?” Flicking my index finger, I motion him to sit down.

  Slowly, he lowers himself into the chair.

  “If you were in America, we’d throw your ass in jail, and your asshole would soon be the size of a teacup, because …?” I look at him, raising my eyebrows for an answer.

  He doesn’t give me one.

  “Because, you raped me. You’re one lucky cunt to be living in this fucked up, God-forsaken country where mayhem is the order of the day. Know that?”

  Without taking his eyes off me, he lights up another cigarette.

  I reach over and snatch it from his hands. Slowly, I lift up the hem of my blouse and wipe his saliva off the cigarette butt. I peer at the cigarette, then wipe it again, my lips twisted in a sneer of disgust. Finally, when I’m satisfied it’s clean, I take another drag and blow out rings of smoke. I’m decidedly drunk, but I don’t give a fuck.

&nbs
p; “I hurt. I wanted to die. Because of you. You violated me. The Geneva Convention says that … that …”

  Suddenly, to my horror, I start to cry again. Despite my inebriated state, I feel every bit of the pain a violated person feels, every bit of the helplessness, the disbelief, the despair … and a deluge of tears ensues.

  I clutch my kitten firmly to me as I weep. “You’ve b … broken me. Finally. You. Not Shaida, not Nazim, not B … Bilal. But you.”

  He hangs his head. “Megan, I’m sorry.”

  I hold up my palm. “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Please. Just don’t!” With shaking hands I stub out my cigarette.

  Resting my head on my knees I blubber, “I t … trusted you. You were the nice guy, Reed. You helped me, you fought for me, you got pistol-whipped because of me, you helped me shower, and you never took advantage of me. You were my Angel-man. How could you …?”

  “Megan, that night – I was drunk, and you … you called me lots of names that night. You said something about wanting to blow us all up. I was in a bad state and I … it just happened. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I really really regret it, but … it just happened, and there is nothing I can do anymore but to apologize and ...”

  My sobs are loud, racking.

  “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You didn’t spill my cup of coffee or something. You violated …”

  “I know.”

  “Go away. Leave. I can’t look at you anymore. Please. Please. Please …”

  He remains where he is.

  “Please. Please ...”

  He gets up and leaves. At the door, he stops and looks at me, then walks out.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s a month since I was raped. Six months since my capture.

  My sadness and despair have morphed into rage at an alarming rate. Mainly for him. I still avoid him like a leper. We are forced to work with one another because of circumstances, and I can’t do anything about that, but what I can do is act like he doesn’t exist. That I can do with ease. I walk into the ward and greet the person to the right of him and the person to the left of him by name, but not him. As if he’s invisible.

  My passive aggression is obvious to everyone in my reactions and responses to him. When he talks to me, I don’t acknowledge him. While he’s talking to me, I walk away. I know it pisses him off, and that gives me a huge thrill. When he ignores my bad behavior, I get really pissed off.

  In spite of the coldness between us, he brings me more goodies – chocolates, dried fruit, and books to read. But he doesn’t bring me any more wine. No need to guess why.

  I accept his gifts, but still treat him with quiet disdain. Sometimes, not so quiet. Like the time he handed me a scarf and said, “You have to wear this whenever you work in the ward.”

  “Why?” I mutter. “I don’t wear scarves. It’s against my … my … religion.”

  He says nothing.

  Irritated with his patience, I steam ahead. “Might be mistaken for a Muslim.”

  His head jerks up.

  I cock my head to one side and give him a bring-it-on look.

  “Look …” He takes a deep breath, probably summoning calm. “You need to keep a low profile. The scarf will help keep you safe.”

  “Keep me safe for … you?

  His eyes turn dark. “Wear the scarf, Megan.”

  “No! It’s not … cheerful enough. I need something bright, colorful, uplift –”

  “Just wear the fucking scarf!” he snaps and walks away.

  “Yeah, or someone might rape me?” I yell after him, pleased that I was able to rattle his cage.

  He throws his arms in the air in an exasperated gesture.

  Good, mother fucker. Get angry.

  ***

  I’m washing dishes when he strides into the kitchen.

  “Megan, why didn’t you fill out the requisition form like I ordered?”

  “Like you ordered?” I rinse off a dinner plate and carefully place it on the pile of washed plates.

  Okay, I didn’t deliberately ignore his instruction. I plain forgot. But my desire to annoy and irk him is such that I can’t bring myself to admit I simply forgot. “A palace with no dishwasher …” I shake my head. “Imagine that.”

  “Yes!” he says. “Like I ordered!”

  “Mmm.” I calmly pick up another plate and scrutinize it. “Maybe it was …” I squint at the plate in my hand. “Does this plate look –?”

  Reed’s arm shoots out and the plate Frisbees into the pile of washed dishes. Glasses, crockery, and cutlery crash around me, causing me to jump.

  “What the …?”

  His eyes blazing, his breathing rapid, he grabs my arm and snarls, “Come with me, you fucking shrew!”

  “Let go of me, you bastard!” I cry as his fingers dig into my arm.

  Everyone around us stops and gapes at the sight of me kicking and screaming all the way to my room.

  “I’m not your fucking slave! Do your own dirty work!”

  “You don’t have a choice, you stupid bitch!” he shouts as he shoves me into my room and boots the door shut.

  “A stupid bitch?” Before I can stop myself, I squirm around and kick him in the groin. I watch in horror as he clutches his groin and stumbles in agony.

  Oh fuck!

  I dart into my bathroom, lock the door behind me, and stand with my back against the bathroom door as if I can prevent him from opening it. Why the fuck did I do that? This rage – it’s messing with my brain. What if he kicks down the door? Would he retaliate? Would he rape me again? The silence itself is sending me into a state of panic.

  But as the minutes drag by, silence persists. Hope mushrooms in me – maybe he’s left. Maybe I should just stay put and emerge sometime later when I am sure that he has gone. After all, he can’t possibly stay here all day, waiting to punish me, could he? And maybe by then, he would have cooled down and seen the funny side. If there is one. From past experience, he wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.

  After an hour passes, I get down to the ground and peek under the door for shoes. Nothing. I peep through the keyhole. Can’t see anyone.

  Quietly, I turn the doorknob, step outside my door and swivel my head around. Empty, just as I thought. Relieved, I take a step forward.

  Suddenly, I am wrestled to the ground by him. My head hits the floor and I lie dazed while he zip-cuffs my hands and effortlessly hoists me onto a chair by my collar.

  As he winds rope around me, my brain clears.

  I thrash and yell, “Let me go, you moron!”

  He glares at me. “You want to kick, huh?” Panting, he seizes my thrashing legs and straps them to the legs of my chair.

  “Untie me, you bastard!”

  After he secures both my legs, he stands up and looks at me, his breathing labored. “You need to understand where you stand right –”

  “Shaddup! Shaddup! Shaddup! I don’t need to hear anything a rapist and a thug has to say! Untie me now, motherfucker!”

  With hooded eyes and clenching jaws, he watches me thrash and curse. “Okay,” he finally mutters more to himself, and walks out of the room.

  Now what? Is he going to leave me tied like this? All day?

  “I need the toilet!” I yell. Childish, but it’s the best I can think of right now.

  Moments later, he returns with a roll of duct tape. He drags a chair over to me and lowers himself on it.

  “Untie me, you asshole!”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to make you.”

  “You untie me now!”

  He slowly unwinds his lanky self. “Okay, you asked for it.” He rips off a piece of duct tape and slaps it across my mouth.

  I curse through the tape and jerk my chair around. “You fucking –”

  “What? What did you say? You want to speak?” He rips off the tape together with most of the skin from around my mouth, I’m sure.

  I yelp in pain, my eyes s
marting.

  “You want to curse? Huh?” He slaps a fresh piece of duct tape across my mouth.

  “Bastard!”

  “Shut up, or I’ll continue ripping the tape off your foul mouth, understand?”

  My chest heaving, I sit in stony silence and glare at the wall.

  “Now, you have a right to be … angry with me. I accept that and I’ve apologized, but right now, you’re taking advantage of me.”

  The duct tape on my mouth does not stop my muffled retort. “Taking advantage of you? What the fuck?”

  His eyes narrow. “You want to talk again?” Rip! Another piece of tape in his hand, together with some of my lips. Well, it feels like that anyway.

  I hang my head in pain, refusing to give him the desired effect.

  “Look at me, Megan!”

  When I don’t comply, he reaches for his duct tape.

  My head jerks back to look at him.

  He lowers the tape. “Now, as I was saying, no analgesics means patients here are in pain and will remain in pain until we are able to get them. You think that’s fair?”

  Silence.

  “Well? Do you?”

  “You want me to speak?”

  He shakes his head. “I want you to answer, without abusing or … or disrespecting me. Can you do that?”

  I take long, deep breath, my eyes fixed on the duct tape in his hand. “What about my pain?” I ask through clenched teeth. “I hurt too.”

  “We all hurt, Megan. Everyone here is here because they are hurting. You came into this land to hurt, don’t you forget that.”

  “I came to help,” I say, trying hard to control my voice. “But you guys – you’re nothing but a bunch of cowards. Terrorists.”

  “To you. But whatever your opinion, this is a place for people in need of care, and you need to understand that to them, you are the terrorist, you are the coward, and you deserve to die.”

  My chuckle is mirthless. “I like the way you use the word ‘they.’ Don’t pretend,” I quickly lower my voice, wary of the duct tape in his hand, “not to be a part of this. You’re just a terrorist too. A militant, an insurg–”

  “Megan, Megan, Megan! I really don’t care what you think of me! Be angry with me, but don’t ever hurt any of these patients with your anger, directly or indirectly. Understand? Whether you like it or not, you need me right now. Without me, you’d still be in the cell, waiting for … whatever!”