I hear a faint sound in the hallway. The lights in the room go on, and I scream in shock as the world disappears in a sheet of white. I’m blind again, blinded by light this time rather than by dark. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes but see only spots. I register the sound of the door opening, and then I feel something press against the side of my neck. A moment later an electric shock jolts me, causing me to cry out in pain and making my muscles contort. It goes on and on, and I feel my bladder let go a moment before I black out.
I wake up a few seconds later. I’m facedown on the floor. I try to say something, but only a parched moan comes out. I feel a needle in the crook of my arm and get the sense of something being forced into my veins. A great dizziness washes over me, and then I’m blind again, overwhelmed by a whirlpool of warmth and white.
I come to again facedown, naked, bound to a metal table, blindfolded. My head is clearing quickly. Whatever he used metabolizes fast.
I cringe into myself, overwhelmed with a sense of shame about my vulnerability and nakedness that is all too familiar. Though I know rape isn’t his thing, all I can think of is, here I am again, that place I swore I’d never be. A man who is not my husband is looking at my body, taking in both its beauties and its flaws. I want to vomit in despair.
I ache everywhere. My eyes and throat feel raw from the pepper spray. My wrists are sore from the cuffs. The muscles in my neck are spasming from the stun-gun hit. Shooting pains run screaming to the base of my skull, promising to turn into a bad, bad headache soon enough.
“This is just a demonstration,” Dali says.
He no longer sounds bored. The quality of his voice has changed in a subtle way. He doesn’t sound excited so much as attentive. Whatever it is he’s about to do, he assigns importance to it. It deserves his concentration.
I break out into a sweat.
“We’re all meat, you see? We are creatures. Animals. We can fool ourselves, but in the end, Pavlov’s dog lives inside every one of us. If you want a man to obey you, all that’s required is the ability to inflict more pain on him than he can handle. It’s not enough to say it. You have to prove it. Prove it enough and he’ll fall into step. Appeal to his fear, not his intellect. Terror is much more reliable.”
I smell something now. It’s not an unpleasant scent. The odor of aftershave, faint but recognizable.
“The most important thing is to keep your promise. If you say ‘don’t do this’ and someone does it anyway, then you have to provide the penalty. In your case, I told you to stay away. You chose to hunt for me instead. Thus you are being punished, and your punishment will serve as an example to others.”
“That’s crazy, Dali. Do you have any idea who I am? I was just chosen by the director of the FBI to head up a national strike team investigating serial offenders. I’m a federal agent on the president’s radar. People are going to be looking for me, in force.”
The bravado falls flat. I can hear the tremors of fear in my own voice, and I despise my own weakness. Later, if I escape, others will tell me in soothing voices that it wasn’t my fault, but it won’t matter.
“They may look, but they won’t find you. The next time my name comes up, they’ll remember what happened to one of their best and think twice.”
He sounds calm, reasonable.
“Do you really believe that?”
“It’s a universal law. A certainty of fear and pain is the best guarantee of obedience.”
“You’re wrong. They’ll never stop. You’ve underestimated them.”
“Initially, maybe, but an animal with a badge is still an animal. Pain and fear will always eventually supersede belief. You just have to provide it in adequate quantities and make it a certainty. The FBI will look for you, but they will not find you. They’ll start thinking about what that means for you, what you’re experiencing, and they’ll realize the truth: It could just as easily be them.”
The room is far too warm. I feel drops of sweat pooling in the curve of my lower back. The sensation of my damp skin against the metal of the table is somehow grotesque. I’m sweating at my hairline, underneath my breasts.
“Debate is never fruitful in the face of hard reality. Let’s say a man speaks against you. Hit him in the face with your fist, make him eat your knuckles. Splinter his teeth and split his lips. Then ask him to repeat what he said. What do you think he’ll do?”
“Tell you to fuck yourself.”
“You can say what you want, but I’m going to provide you with a demonstration of my tenets regardless. You can make up your own mind about their efficacy.”
“Wait,” I say. He ignores me, continuing on as though I hadn’t spoken. He’s unhurried, patient, like a golem or an automaton.
“I’m going to whip you. It’s going to hurt, particularly with all that sweat that’s covering your body. You will scream and cry and beg, but I will not stop. I never stop. I don’t take pleasure in doing this. I do this to show you what to expect in the future if you disobey me. Do you understand?”
The bored tone is back, which frightens me the most. “Wait,” I say again.
Something thin and leather snaps down against my upper back. The fact that I couldn’t anticipate it makes it somehow much, much worse than it normally would be. There’s a split second of numbness, followed by an unbearable burning pain. I start to scream but manage to bite it back.
“You should go ahead and let yourself scream,” he says. “You will, anyway.”
It ends in silence. I’d been trapped in a haze, a miasma of agony and flashing bright lights, like lightning captured inside a thundercloud. I had screamed, until the screams themselves became too much of an effort, as the brain shut down and all I could do was writhe.
It ends as it began, without warning. I wait for the next crack on my flesh, but it doesn’t come. I continue to cringe anyway, a reflex response to the rhythm he’d set up. I realize it’s over and I allow myself to cry. I hate it, but I just can’t help it.
My whole body hurts. The cuts in my back and buttocks and on the backs of my legs burn as the salt from my own sweat contacts them. It’s like being covered in biting ants, or having a bad sunburn slapped again and again.
The only thing I am thankful for, through my grief and shame and pain, is that he seems to be satisfied with the back of my body. He’s stayed away from my belly.
“You’ve experienced one of the penalties for disobedience. I think you’ll find that it’s fairly brilliant. I’m careful not to completely debilitate you. I’ll put antibiotic ointment on your deeper cuts, and you’ll be very, very uncomfortable for a number of days, but there’s no permanent damage. There’s not even likely to be any scarring, unless you force me to do it a number of times.”
I am filled with sickness at my own helpless gratitude. Yes, good, no more scars. Thank God.
“You have simple rules and a simple life. Follow them, and I’ll leave you alone. Disobey me, and you’ll find yourself back in this room. You should know that I took it easy on you this time, as this was just for the purpose of demonstration. It can get a lot worse. I can make it last twice as long, three times as long, all day if I want. I can dab you with drain cleaner. I can burn you with cigarettes.”
I don’t say anything, but I shiver.
“The rules are as follows. I will provide you with three meals a day. You are to eat the food you’re given. You are to exercise for a minimum of thirty minutes daily. This will include push-ups, crunches, and running in place. You are to use the toilet to relieve yourself. That is all. Once a week, when I am here, I will provide you with dental floss, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I will watch as you clean your teeth thoroughly.
Try to attack me or harm yourself and the penalty will be severe. This is all I require. Do you understand?”
My mouth doesn’t seem to want to work. He slaps a hand down on my back, making me scream out loud.
“Do you understand?” he asks again, calm and patient as ever.
�
�Yes!” I moan.
“Very good. Obey these rules and you also remain unshackled in your cell. Disobey them and you won’t just be punished, you’ll be chained. Now, before I tend to your wounds and take you back, I want to show you something. I’m going to lift your blindfold. Turn your head to your left and look.”
He lifts up the cloth and turns my head. I blink at the light. The room is concrete and fluorescents, like everything here. I see another table about four feet away, another naked body bound to it, facedown and blindfolded. I close my eyes and open them again to dispel the blurriness. What I see freezes my heart.
“Leo,” I whisper.
Leo Carnes lies on the table, trembling uncontrollably. It has to be even worse for him; he’s been here the whole time, listening to what Dali did to me.
“Leo, I’m here,” I say.
“Smoky? Is that you? He shot Alan! What’s happening?”
“Quiet,” Dali admonishes, though not angrily.
“Hang in there, Leo,” I tell him. “Do what he says.” Dali replaces my blindfold and then smacks my back again, harder than the first time. I arch against my bonds but bite back the scream.
“Quiet, I said.”
“You killed Alan?”
“The black agent? I don’t know if he’s dead or not. I shot him twice. Now, be quiet or you get another ten minutes with the whip.”
This shuts me up. He proceeds to apply ointment to my back. It’s painful, but I endure it. When finished, he uncuffs me from the table and undoes my other bonds.
“From this point on you’ll be naked. You don’t need clothes in your room. The good news is, you’ll also be uncuffed. Isn’t that better?”
I don’t reply, and this earns me another slap. It’s hard enough that I cry out. I grit my teeth and fight back my rage. “Yes,” I say. “It will be better.”
He maneuvers me into a sitting position.
“Stand slowly. You’re going to be a little unsteady.”
He’s right. I ease off the table, and my knees almost buckle when I try to stand. Dali keeps me from falling.
“Walk forward as I direct you. Do you understand?”
Back to rote and bored.
“Yes.”
He marches me forward. I sense a temperature change against my body and surmise that we’ve gone through a doorway. We go down a long hall, turn twice, then stop.
“Why didn’t you drug me for the trip back to my cell?” I ask.
“Room,” he corrects me. “Better if you look at it that way, trust me. You should be too weak to resist after what you’ve just been through. If you’re not, then I want to know that too.”
I’m surprised that he answered, so I push my luck one last time as I hear the door open.
“How do you see all this, Dali? What you’re doing to us?”
The briefest pause, then:
“Doing to you? I’m not ‘doing’ anything. I’m just storing meat.” He yanks off my blindfold and pushes me forward into darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I travel behind my eyes, inside my mind, and I speak to both the living and the dead. Matt is there, Alexa is there, my faceless, unborn child is there. Bonnie is there as well, but she is mute again and her eyes are full of sadness.
It was darkness when I closed my eyes, because it’s always darkness. Three times a day a rectangle of light appears at the bottom of my door, and food is dropped inside. It’s always the same: oatmeal and oranges in the morning, ham or roast beef sandwich with an apple in the afternoon, hot dogs and lettuce in the evening. A packet of vitamins also comes with each dinner. And water. Always plenty of water.
“Eat it all,” he told me. “Not just because I’ll punish you if you don’t, but because I’m including what you need to survive. I’m giving you meats for protein, and fruits and vegetables to prevent scurvy. The vitamins are a new thing. I’m working to find a balance that doesn’t cost me too much per head but prevents loss of teeth due to a lack of calcium. Milk spoils too quickly. We’ll see how it goes.”
I’ve had no further experiences in the punishment room. I long to defy him, but I can’t chance it. I have a baby growing inside me, and it, along with the light behind my eyes, has become my lifeline.
Three weeks have passed. Three weeks of darkness and ennui. There are no books, no TV, no radio. There is nothing to do but think, and eat, and exercise, and walk from one end of the cell to the other, and use the toilet, and sleep. Once I started to masturbate, simply to relieve the crushing boredom, but then I remembered that he might be watching on a camera, and I stopped myself.
Once a week, as promised, he visits to make me brush and floss my teeth. It’s always the same. The lights go on without warning, blinding me. The door opens and he shocks me with the stun gun. Then he blindfolds me. When I’m able to stand again, he guides me to the pail of water he’s brought with him. He hands me dental floss and I floss my teeth. He gives me a toothbrush, with toothpaste already applied, and I brush and rinse. He shocks me again, turns me face over as I spasm, removes my blindfold, and exits the cell, returning me to solitude and darkness.
The first time, he talked. He said: Excellent, number 35. That’s what he calls me. Number 35. I file it away into the numbness I’ve become.
The last two times, he said nothing at all. I sat on the floor while he waited for me to finish. His patience is becoming the thing I hate the most. It is indifference, and in this place, indifference is a poison all its own.
It’s only been three weeks, and I already feel myself wanting to break down. I want him to say something to me. I hate him, but I long for him to speak, or to yell, or to hit me. Anything that involves interaction with another human being, however twisted.
Is this the same loneliness that keeps battered women with their abusive spouses? Is that what it’s like for those women? A stony solitude of hushes, where the silence and the lack become a living pain? If it is, I’ll never judge them again, at least not in the same way.
I long for anything to acknowledge my existence. It doesn’t even have to be human. I saw a movie once in which a prisoner of war made friends with a rat. I was repulsed at the time. Now I wish for my own rat.
The darkness and the silence and the solitude grind on that least protected thing: the soul.
That’s right, I said to myself, just the other day (day? Or night?). The soul.
I’m done wondering. Once you turn out all the lights and the body disappears from sight and you are left alone, what is it that remains? The sense of self, the me, the am that I am.
If that’s not the soul, what is? I don’t care to hear the answer.
Madness in this place and places like it, I think, comes from too much thought. Thought is all you have. It’s the one thing you can do that can’t be taken away. The problem is, once you start thinking, it can be hard to stop. Like getting a tune stuck in your head, your mind can get rolling, grooving, heading down the highway, and you can watch as the sun rises and sets and the trees go by but find, when the sun sets, that the brakes have failed. You don’t coast to a stop, you writhe on your cot instead and curse, or rage, or weep.
I worried in the beginning about Leo and Alan. As time moved on, and my sense of time became a floating thing, I found less and less desire to consider either.
Just three weeks, and it’s already a hell on earth I could never have imagined.
I hold on to my sanity with tricks taught to me by Barnaby Wallace. His seminar, as it turns out, was a hell of a good investment.
Fear comes from too little certainty or too much. Torture is about denying one or the other, or both. The torturer takes away your certainty through different methods. Sleep deprivation. Sensory deprivation. No clocks or windows so you can’t track the time. He gives you too much certainty by promising to give you a good shot of pain and then delivering on that promise. So how do you conquer that fear? He stopped then, a hand going absently to a scar on the side of his neck. First thing you need t
o know about torture: Everyone breaks eventually. There’s no foolproof method, not for anyone on this earth. Give a dedicated man enough time, and he’ll crack the bravest down the middle. Period. What I can teach you is how to delay that breaking point. How to put it off in the distance. Will it work for you? He shrugged. Everybody’s different.
One of the methods he talked about had to do with a kind of self-hypnosis. Creating a world behind your eyes, he called it. He showed us a video of a Japanese man deep in meditation. Various people try to distract him, first by screaming into his ears and then, later, by smacking him in the back with boards and rods. He remains serene throughout, a half smile on his face, even when they once draw blood.
That’s an extreme example, Wallace admitted. This is a guy who’s been sitting in the lotus position since he was four years old. But the principle is the same. It’s workable. He’d smiled a thin, crooked smile. We like workable.
I’ve turned Barnaby’s lessons into a small salvation, and it is keeping me tethered to myself, in the dark.
Everything is black when I close my eyes, as now, but once they are closed, the light goes on, or the sun comes up, or the moon rises.
Right now I am in a meadow at noon. The meadow is full of flowers. They stand as tall and thick as wheat in a field and are a rich riot of rainbow colors. They are vivid and vibrant and beautiful. In the center of the meadow is a large circle of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Birdsong and wind are the dominant sounds, both low and perfect. I am overwhelmed with images that contain beauty but no sense: a silo filled with sawdust, rich in smells; apples with sugar sores; fresh cut wheat, spring’s rebellion.
I sit on the grass in the meadow and I talk to my unborn child. It is neither he nor she, it is a small blur of roughly human-shaped light. I speak to it aloud, but it talks to me with its mind.
“What do I do when he knows about you?” I ask, and then laugh at my own poetry. “Time, time, to make up a rhyme. But seriously, baby, what do I do?”
Abandoned: A Thriller Page 33
