It didn’t take long for him to realize he would go mad confined to his cell with nothing to do but stare at the walls. He set himself a routine, a margin of control. When he awoke, he considered it ‘morning’ and did as much of a normal bathroom routine as he could manage under the circumstances. Then he began his exercise program. Despite the cell’s tiny dimensions, he was able to do crunches, push-ups, lunges and squats. He made sure every movement was precise, the intense focus kept his mind sharp. Counting out each exercise and holding the positions for a set amount of seconds, gave him a rough estimate of the passage of time.
He worked especially hard on his stretching. His sessions with Jim and his team had taken a nasty turn. Not satisfied with the endlessly same answers to the endlessly same questions they had decided he would think of more interesting things to say if they chained him to the floor or the walls of the interrogation room and made him bend his body into ‘positions’. Muscles stretched or cramped, joints twisted, bearing weight they were never designed for and if he broke the position they would make him ‘start over’, but he never knew what measure of time they were using. More than once he’d had to lean on a guard to steady himself for the walk back to his cell. The stretches helped. A little.
Mark downed the milk and sent the tray out. It had been a late one today and he had already completed his workout. He sat on the floor, legs crossed. If nobody came to take him away for questioning, he spent the time between breakfast and the next meal doing imaginary photo shoots. Today, his model was a top cover girl. Her picture graced the pages of swimsuit issues, high fashion magazines and she had her own line of clothing. Every detail of the photo-shoot played in his head. The lighting, the camera angles, and the location. Sometimes, he even allowed some bad frames to tarnish the proof-sheet. On a good day, those mistakes made him smile.
He had just tested the light meter in the imaginary shoot, when the tinny voice came over the speaker commanding him to put his hands through the slot. The photo-shoot dissolved in his mind, and his heart thumped against his ribs. Even with all of his exercises and stretches, the positions caused him agony. It just took longer for the pain to hit.
There was a tiny part of him that welcomed the excursions. As horrible as they were, at least he had someone to talk to. Pain was the price he paid for company. Pain he could deal with because it wasn’t permanent. There was an end to it, and then it was gone with nothing to show for it. No scars or disabilities. It could be worse. He could be in a pit with rats and fed maggot infested rice. Compared to that, this was nothing. Mark took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. He winced as the left one grated in its socket. Maybe just a little bit of disability.
Five minutes later, he stood in the familiar room. The three usual spectators sat at their table, quietly chatting as he entered. He listened as hard as he could. Sometimes, he caught bits of sports scores or traffic reports. As mundane as it was, he relished every scrap of it. He felt less isolated when he knew the Knicks beat the Lakers or that there was a ten car pile up on the freeway. There was still a world going on outside his walls and he clung to that fact like a tick to a dog.
Jim strode into the room and Bill tagged along behind him blowing on a cup of coffee. Mark’s mouth watered at the scent. They ignored him while Jim sorted through some papers and Bill told an off-color joke to the other three. Mark filed the joke away for later, when he could smile in private.
Finally selecting a sheet of paper, Jim closed the file. It was Mark’s. He knew it. Every time he was brought here, it was a little thicker.
Jim approached him, his face grim and not in sync with his greeting. “Good afternoon.”
Mark filed that information away too. So, it wasn’t even morning although he had eaten breakfast less than an hour ago. He would try to go to sleep earlier today and see if he could get his nights and days back on track.
“Good afternoon.” He didn’t mean to emphasize the afternoon part, but Jim caught it, and gave him a sharp look. Mark knew somehow he had blundered.
“I have some questions to ask you, but you probably already knew that.”
“Yes, sir.” There, he had spoken. It felt good, even if it was to Jim.
“You’re looking rather smug today.” Jim quirked his mouth, as though trying to figure out what Mark was up to. “What’s going on?”
Mark raised his chin a notch. He would never admit coming here was better than sitting in his cell waiting for the walls to close in on him. “Nothing, sir.” His stomach churned. It was their mission to make his life a complete hell. It wasn’t enough that they stole every last shred of pleasure from his life, now even a pleasant thought was forbidden.
“We’ll see if you’re feeling so pleased with yourself after today.”
Mark swallowed and dropped his gaze to the floor. Maybe the cell was better.
Jim paced, his measured steps in cadence with his words. “Okay, first, I’ll give you the opportunity, as always, to be forthcoming and admit to your crimes. Give us the information we’ve been asking of you.” He stopped directly in front of Mark. “We can end this session on a good note for once. How about it?”
Mark lifted his gaze, not fooled by the hopeful look in the other man’s eyes. The men at the table behind Jim sat straight, more alert than he had ever seen them. One drummed his fingers. Mark’s stomach went from churning to a whirling mass of acid.
“I…I don’t have anything to confess.” He almost wished he did. He would do nearly anything for all of this to be over. More than once, he’d considered making up a confession. If only he had details. Plausible details. But he didn’t.
Jim sighed. “I didn’t want to have to do this.” Regret flashed over his face and it looked genuine. Then he nodded to the guards stationed behind Mark.
They unlocked his ankle shackles from the floor and grabbed each arm, dragging him to a corner and ordered him lie down on a hard board. His arms were stretched over his head and secured so tightly, his own arms restrained his head from moving. The chains on his ankles tightened, and he heard the clink as the guard clipped his feet to something. His heart skipped a beat when the foot of the board was raised. Blood rushed to his head, and he tried to control his trembling. What were they going to do to him?
There was a shuffling and the scrape of chairs on the floor. Jim stood to the right of Mark’s head. He couldn’t turn his head far enough to see, but it sounded like the men in the room had come closer. The door to the room opened, sending a slight breeze over him and he shivered.
Jim stepped away from Mark, his footsteps headed towards the door. “Thanks for joining us, Dr. Solomon. We’re almost ready to begin, so please, just have a seat.”
A doctor? What the hell did they need a doctor for? Mark pulled against the restraints as his stomach twisted into a tight knot of fear.
“I can’t say I’m glad to be here, but it’s good to see you again, Jim.” Out of the corner of his eye, Mark caught a glimpse of a white coat and heard a rustle. The doctor was going to just sit and watch while they did whatever the hell it was they planned to do?
The guard spoke to Jim and pulled Mark’s attention away from the doctor. “Sir? How do you want me to do this?”
The uncertainty in the man’s voice terrified him. Was there a hint of reluctance too? The man had never been reluctant to restrain him before. What was different this time?
Jim returned to the spot near Mark’s head. “Use the cloth. Put it over his nose and mouth. That usually works best.”
Did they plan on smothering him? His breath rasped out in ragged pants as he tugged again on the chains. “I don’t have anything to confess. Please.”
He met the guard’s eyes, but whatever reluctance had flashed earlier, was gone, and the guard let his gaze slide away from Mark’s. The other man’s expression a blank mask, he draped a cloth across the lower part of Mark’s face. It felt too light to smother him. The guard disappeared from his vision, but Mark’s fear escalated when water splash
ed nearby. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as a chill swept through him.
The guard returned with a large pitcher in his hand. It was like the one Mark’s mother used to mix Kool-Aid when he was a child. The guard looked up as though waiting for a signal from someone. Mark riveted his eyes on the man’s face and held his breath waiting for…what? If only the guard would look at him again. His eyes would show if it was going to be bad. If he knew for sure, he could brace himself. Mark froze when the guard took a deep breath and nodded to someone out of Mark’s field of vision. The signal had been given.
The cloth fluttered against his lips with every ragged breath. Mark locked onto the pitcher in the guard’s hand. He held it over Mark’s head and wouldn’t look him in the eye. The water flashed in the light an instant before it hit his face. For a few seconds, Mark sputtered, too ticked off about the iciness of the water to recognize the real threat. With every breath, water flooded his nose and mouth. His body spasmed in an effort to get rid of it. The water kept coming and coming. He coughed and gagged, sucking in even more liquid. It ran into his nose and his sinuses burned as they flooded. He fought, bucking against the shackles and arched his back in an attempt to move his head. That only made the stinging in his sinuses worse and increased the pressure behind his eyes.
This was it. He was going to drown. Above the roar in his ears, Mark heard Jim ask if he’d had enough. If he just talked, the torment would cease. He opened his mouth to say yes, just to get them to stop-whatever it took, but the water filled his throat. Without enough breath to even cough, his vision narrowed and his strength ebbed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mark coughed and felt his body turning until he was lying on his side. He panted and discovered the cloth was gone and he was no longer chained to the board. His arms remained shackled in front of him, but when he curled his legs to his chest, there was no resistance. His stomach churned and he barely made it up on one elbow before he vomited eggs and water all over the floor. His throat felt raw and his chest ached as he retched until nothing more came up.
Each cough tore through him like he was being turned inside out, but finally, the spasms died down. He hung his head, exhausted and his chest heaved as he sucked in air. Spent, he sagged onto his side. He was vaguely aware of the voices around him. Someone kept asking him if he was okay. It was the dumbest question he had ever heard. There was a splash nearby, and in blind panic, he rolled back to a half-sitting position and used his elbow and feet to scramble away from the sound. The guards were there in an instant, grabbing the chains and shackles.
Jim leaned over him. “Maybe next time, you’ll talk.” He straightened. “Get him out of here.”
***
The walk back to his cell was a blur as Mark stumbled along between the guards. It was all he could do to put his hands and feet through the slots to have his shackles removed before he crawled onto the bed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He couldn’t stop shaking and his teeth chattered. He clenched his jaw until it ached. It was only a matter of time now, he was convinced of that. No longer was it a matter of if, but a matter of when. They would kill him and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
His stomach rumbled and he staggered to the toilet, but he was reduced to dry heaves. Afterward, he leaned on the sink and scooped water to rinse his mouth, but as soon as it touched his lips, the nausea came roaring back and he gagged. Exhausted, he sank to the floor and curled up in the blanket. His shadowy reflection on outside of the stainless steel toilet bowl looked sinister, his eyes just dark smudges in his chalky face.
There was no hope. As far as he could tell, he had been here months already. Mark tried to track the seasons by the weather when he was allowed out in the courtyard every few days. Spring had come to wherever he was, and since he had been here, he had seen only the gang of interrogators. Even his request for his lawyer was ignored. How could they do that? He had watched plenty of cop shows. The bad guys always got lawyers. How come he hadn’t been able to talk to his?
Jessie had mentioned the term “enemy combatant”, but he hadn’t had time to ask her exactly what that meant. Now he knew. It meant they could do anything they wanted to him. Anything at all.
His shivering abated, but his energy didn’t return. He coughed, his whole body shuddering and he groaned at the ache in his ribs. He felt like he had been beaten with a bat. Wrung out emotionally and physically, he slept.
The clink of the slot woke him. They were back. He scuttled under the bed, banging his head against the metal in his haste. If they tried to take him, he’d fight. It would be better to die fighting right now. Backing into the farthest corner, he strained to hear over the sound of his own breathing. A soft scrape reached him and then the creak of the slot closing. Mark remained under the bed for a long time, ears attuned for any other sounds. Slowly…carefully, he inched his way out and spotted his meal tray.
Eyes glued to the door, he retrieved it and set it on his bed. The sandwich looked safe enough. He sniffed it. Turkey. It was dry, and after a bite, he reached for the purple juice that didn’t taste at all like grape juice. The liquid hit his mouth and it was all he could do to keep the small bite of sandwich from coming back up.
After two more attempts to eat it, he gave up. His stomach couldn’t handle the food and what little he had managed to swallow came back up moments later. When the slot opened for him to push the tray out, he shoved it as hard as he could, and the curse of the guard on the other side almost made him smile.
Days passed and they didn’t come to take him to be interrogated. Every time a meal arrived, he jumped at the sound at the door, terrified they were coming for him. The constant stress made eating impossible and his hunger diminished. At first, he tried to eat everything, but when he puked more often than not, he quit trying. What difference did it make anyway? Starving or drowning, the end result was still dead. At least he controlled one.
He abandoned his exercise routine. There was no point. Time didn’t matter and he sat in the cell staring at the wall. They took away his blanket after he shoved out a meal a second time, and he was sure they cranked the air conditioning on to its lowest setting. He shivered and lay on the bed. Mostly, he slept.
His dreams no longer held future events, instead, he dreamed of the past. Christmas, summer vacations, sitting in school. The settings didn’t always look like he remembered, but somehow he always knew where he was in them. And he was always safe.
Delivery of meals became an annoyance that took him from his dreams and forced him to get up to push the tray back out. At last there came a time when he couldn’t get up. He tried, but his head spun and he sat back down. Three times, he tried to stand. They would be mad at him. He knew it, so he lurched to his feet. His head swam and the floor raced up to meet him, slowed only by the thud of his head as it hit the toilet.
He lay stunned, watching with mild interest as blood flowed across the floor. His blood. At least he had added some color to the room. The puddle spread and felt sticky and warm beneath his ear. He raised his head a fraction and tried to swipe at it, but his arm was too heavy to move. With a wet squelch, his head sank back to the floor. It felt like ice against his cheek. Mark shuddered and closed his eyes. He was so tired.
Voices, urgent and angry, penetrated his consciousness. They were angry at him-he could tell. They were probably mad that he had made a mess in his room. If they just gave him a minute, he’d get up and clean it. If he could just get his body to cooperate. He had to get up.
The command from his brain died on its way to his limbs. Shiny black boots halted a few feet away and a blur of pink became a face. It was speaking to him, but Mark couldn’t process what it was saying and gave up when the effort sent a bolt of pain through his head.
He couldn’t remember closing his eyes, but he felt something prying them open one at a time, and groaned when a bright light flashed in them. He tried to close his eyes and turn his head but hands held him still and tore at his shi
rt. Something tight went around his neck. Fear that they were going to strangle him entered his mind, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to open his eyes. It wasn’t until he felt a hard board at his back, and his body rolled onto it, that the panic set in. He tried to scramble off the board, but his arms and legs had been strapped down. It was no use. He was trapped. The voices dimmed and became distant. Then they were gone and everything went black.
***
“Open your eyes!”
A hand shook his shoulder and Mark blinked awake with a start. He squinted at a greenish curtain dangling from the ceiling. Where the hell was he? The room wasn’t the same as the interrogation room and he was in a bed. A real bed. With a real pillow and he smoothed his hand against the mattress. Sheets. Scratchy ones, but they felt heavenly to him. Blankets covered him up to his chest. He wanted to close his eyes and burrow into them, but the hand shook him again.
The voice came again, “Oh no you don’t. No going back to sleep.” While still commanding, it wasn’t threatening.
“What?” Mark tried again when his first attempt came out as a croak, and he sought out the speaker. Jim.
Mark jerked and tried to scoot to the far side of the bed. A clip on his finger fell to the floor and he nearly tore his hand off when the handcuff attached to the bed pulled him up short. What did Jim want? He blinked, and rubbed his eyes against the top of his shoulder, feeling dizzy. A loud beeping began, adding to the confusion.
“Christ! Lie down before you pass out again.” Jim put a hand on Mark’s arm, urging him back against the bed. “Stick your finger out. You knocked this thing off.”
Mark complied, but never took his eyes off the other man as Jim put the clip back on Mark’s finger. At least the annoying beeping stopped. He licked his lips; they felt dry and cracked.
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