Wounded

by Jasinda Wilder

We round a corner, and my gut clenches. I slow, scan the rooftops. Derek is doing the same.

  "Feel it?" I ask.

  "Fuck yeah. Shits about to hit the fan. "

  The others are piled up behind us. I see nothing, so I continue, even though my instincts are telling me to stop, go back, stay, get the f**k down. I creep forward a few more feet, and then my gut is screaming too loud to ignore. I shove Derek to the side and drop to the ground for no reason whatsoever. As I taste dirt, an AK barks from a rooftop. Bullets snap through the air where we had been.

  Fucking knew it.

  Someone behind us shoots back—Barrett, Im pretty sure. Only Barrett fires like that, three-three, pause, three.

  Then all hell breaks loose. AK fire erupts from all directions, and suddenly were split, half our unit cut off from the other half. Derek has a bead on an insurgent on the roof opposite us, so I wait until a muzzle-burst gives away a location and pour fire at it. I see a head and shoulder pop up, black metal and tan wood and black-spot eyes. I squeeze the trigger, and a burst of pink mist tells me I dropped him.

  Theres a pause, and Derek and I lurch into a run, breaking for a better position. I hear boots pound behind us. Were nearly there when I hear a hackhackhack and then fire and pain gouts through me, centered on my left shoulder and thigh. Im spun around, fall. Im dragged by the hand through the dust, bleeding. The strain on my wounded shoulder as Im pulled is agonizing. I see Derek beside me, firing at a doorway. I see a shape, a muzzle-burst, bullets peppering the dirt and the wall near us.

  Derek hits his target. I watch, the world sideways, as the muzzle-burst goes silent mid-bark. Derek shifts, prepares to drag me farther into cover. Then a figure, thin and young, stumbles from the doorway, bleeding. He throws a grenade, and I try to move, but Derek is already on top of me, rolling away with me, and the seconds until detonation tick in my head like thundering drums, each one a heartbeat.

  Heat and fire and pressure erupt, the sound so deafening it becomes silence, and were thrown. I feel wetness spread, feel pins of pain stab me. The silence continues and I wonder if Ive gone deaf, but then ringing fills my ears, and I know my hearing will return eventually.

  Derek is too still. Too wet. I find my feet, bullet-pierced leg screaming, refusing to support me, but I dont care. Can’t afford to care. Adrenaline powers me. I grip Dereks red-slick hand and pull him, needing him to be okay. Rifle fire is a distant roar, and I see puffs of dirt marking Deaths walk toward me.

  My side hurts, low, near the hip. Shrapnel, I think. I push my hand against it, trying vainly to dull the pain with pressure. I get Derek a few feet away, closer to the doorway that would provide some cover, but then Im struck again in the shoulder. I fall to my knees, find my rifle, fire blindly. Find a target, fire. Dropped him. Another—crackcrack—dropped him.

  Fuck, I hurt.

  A slug of agony hits my thigh, right near the original wound. I cant stay upright any longer. I hear more rifles firing, M-16s, an AK, and then a detonation. Someone shouts my name, Dereks name. Barrett. I want to answer but have no breath in my lungs. Its been stolen by pain, by shrapnel and bullet holes.

  I succumb to the pain, let it wash over me. I drift and float, and then I feel something push me. Pain breaks over me like a wave when I crash to my back, and I force my eyes open.

  Goddamn, shes beautiful.

  Its a stupid, random thought, out of place on this battlefield, but I cant shake it. Shes kneeling above me, her head-scarf thing, a hidab, or. . . my pain-fogged brain wont spit out the right word. Hijab. That’s the word. Its coming loose around her face, tendrils of bottle-blonde hair escaping to drift across her delicate-featured face. I want to touch her finely sculpted cheeks, but my hand wont work.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask.

  She looks at me in confusion. She doesnt understand.

  I my head and see Derek. Hes a f**king mess. Panicked horror is a thick, hot knot in my throat. NO! Not Derek….

  Weve been buddies forever. Second grade. He called me a sissy and I beat his ass and weve been buddies ever since. Joined up together, got lucky, and managed to get through Basic in the same unit, assigned to the same grunt squad. Impossible luck, to stay together like this for so long, through war, through death.

  Now hes dead.

  "Derek?" I claw toward him. Poke him; he hates being poked. "Derek?"

  I look at the girl, bright brown eyes like sun-bathed earth fixed on me. She touches two fingers to Dereks neck, looks back at me, shakes her head. Her meaning is clear.

  "DEREK!" I cant help the scream.

  I know Im crying, feel the salt burning down my cheek, but I cant stop it. I dont care if Im crying in front of this gorgeous Iraqi girl like some kind of goddamn sissy. Derek is dead.

  Dead.

  Fuck.

  Darkness swallows me.

  * * *

  I wake up in the darkness. Shadows have eaten me. Silence sits on my chest like a wet, heavy blanket. I look around me, see shapes in the shadows. A chair, a table. A mirror reflecting shards of starlight. A square of lighter black with a swatch of pinprick stars: a window. Hard earth beneath me.

  I want to get up. Need to get up. Cant stay here. Gotta get back to the guys. I manage an inch upward before pure agony bolts through me and I cry out, a soft grunt, high-pitched and girly. Goddamn sissy whimpers. I grit my teeth to silence myself.

  Scratching, motion, rustling cloth. Then a face appears above me, blocking my view of the stars. Blonde hair hangs loose in long waves around her bare shoulders. Im struck again by how stunningly beautiful she is, even in the dark of midnight black.

  She says something in Arabic and touches the center of my chest to push me down, a feather-light touch between bullet holes in each shoulder. I stare at her, unable to look away. I wish it was light so I could see her better.

  She tugs a thin blanket farther up my body, and I realize Im clad only in my skivvies. Clumsy bandages are held on by tape, not medical tape. Regular tape. I laugh, which hurts. The girl tilts her head in confusion.

  I point at the bandage, the tape. "Did you do this?"

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  I know she cant answer me, or understand me, but I ask anyway. I dont know why. I just want to talk to her.

  She says something back, her voice sharp. I think she caught on to my criticism.

  I hold up my hands to stop the accusing sound of her voice. "Thank you. " I know Ive been told how to say it Arabic, but I have to think about it. "Chokran. "

  She nods once and turns away, lies down, facing away. Her shoulders look tense, and I can tell she doesnt trust herself to really sleep with me here, even wounded.

  "You can sleep, you know," I say. "I couldnt hurt a fly right now. "

  She rolls over and looks at me, dusky skin starlit silver. She whispers something, shaking her head, shrugging.

  "I know you dont understand me. It doesnt matter. " I smile at her, but she stares at me, impassive. "Sleep. "

  I mime sleeping, hands folded under my face, an exaggerated snore, then point at her. I point at myself with a thumb. I try to move and a groan escapes. I look at her and shrug, then mime sleeping again. She frowns in thought, then gives me a tiny smile. She gets it. She closes her eyes slowly, her eyelids flutter, then close again. Her breathing slows, and then shes asleep. I watch her sleep.

  Why did she bring me here? Why did she help me? I would have bled out, died. Im a burden. I wont be able to do shit for myself for weeks. Ill need to eat. Ill need help shitting. How can she help me? This house is tiny. She cant have much. Ill need antibiotics, probably. Id wish for morphine, but I know I wont get it. Probably wont even get aspirin.

  Now that shes asleep, I let the pain wash over me and let it show. It hurts so goddamn bad its hard to breathe.

  I fall asleep again.

  When I wake, bright sunlight streams through the square, uncovered
window. Im on the floor in a corner. Theres another bed opposite me, a mattress on the dirt covered by neatly folded blankets. Theres an old, battered stove in one corner, older than me. A single bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, a large hunk of mirror with taped edges leaning against the wall. The girl is nowhere to be seen.

  I close my eyes again, and thats when I hear it: the unmistakable sounds of sex. Male grunts, female moans. The moans sound forced, too loud, too exuberant. It lasts for a moment, then stops. I hear boots scritching in the dirt and a male voice muttering under his breath in Arabic. Another moment, and then the girl appears in the doorway, smoothing her hair with her fingers. She doesnt glance at me, as if not seeing me. She goes into the tiny bathroom with the rusted stainless steel sink, slips out of her skirt, cleans herself with damp rag. I watch, embarrassed, but unable to look away.

  She is lithe, slim, long-legged, with flawless dark skin. I make myself look away to give her privacy. I hear her say something, a curse if the tone of her voice is any indication. I look at her. She is staring at me, almost expectantly. She is still naked from the waist down. I avert my eyes, roll away, groaning in pain.

  I hear clothing rustle and shes clothed again, standing over me. She has money in her hand, and thats when I put two and two together. Understanding must be visible on my face, because her features harden. Her fist clenches around the wad of bills.

  "Hey, its none of my business," I say.

  She responds, but of course I dont understand what shes saying. She sounds angry. She gestures at herself, at the door, which I take to be a gesture at the world at large. Shes explaining herself, I think. She touches her stomach, hunching over it, groaning.

  "You dont owe me any explanations," I say, as if were having a conversation.

  Hunger. I realize what she was trying to say with her charade. She sold herself for food. Pity must have registered on my face, and she must have recognized it. Her eyes blaze with anger, and she tosses the money at me and stomps away, although she only goes to the other side of the little house, arms folded, back bowing out and shoulder heaving as she breathes through her emotions.

  "Im sorry," I say.

  She turns to look at me over her shoulder and says something. My imagination fills in the gap: I dont want your pity. She turns away and opens a cabinet, finds a box, produces a pill, and dry-swallows it. Birth control, I imagine. I wonder if its difficult to get a hold of, out here.

  She brings me flat bread and a bottle of water, a packet of foil containing ground beef or lamb. I struggle to sit up, gritting my teeth against the pulsating pain. She motions at me to stay down, mimes feeding me. Hell, no. I ignore her and get my shoulder blades propped against the wall, panting and sweating. I think I have broken ribs. I hurt so bad I could cry, but I refuse to let myself.

  She watches me, frowning, shakes her head and mutters something. Stubborn ass, I imagine she says. She sets the packet of foil on my stomach, which hurts from the effort of moving. I reach for it, but my arm is weak. I manage a few bites while she watches. She clearly wants to help, but doesnt. Im glad. I refuse to be fed like a goddamn baby. Its exhausting and painful, but I manage to eat it all, and drink the water. I feel better.

  She glances at me, then pulls the blanket off me. If I didnt know better, Id think she was blushing. Its a ridiculous idea, though, given what she does for a living. She doesnt look at me as she gently peels at the tape around the bandage on my leg.

  "Do it fast," I tell her. She looks at me quizzically. "Fast. "

  I show her, ripping the bandage off quickly. It hurts like a bitch, and I have to stifle a groan. She picks at the bandage on one of my shoulders, going slowly again.

  "No, do it fast. " I mime ripping quickly. She looks at me incredulously and says something. I shrug. "Its better to just get it over with. "

  She peels slowly. I curse, put my hand on hers, and rip it away, hissing through my teeth. She jerks her hand away and scrambles backward, chattering angrily, jabbing her finger at me.

  She doesnt like to be touched, I guess. I lift my hands up. "Im sorry. I wont do it again. "

  I put my hands on my lap, covering myself, fingers threaded. She moves toward me again and pulls the last bandage off, quickly this time. I nod and she shakes her head in disbelief.

  Stupid ass, I imagine her saying again.

  She takes a roll of gauze and rips a long, ragged piece off. I frown, wanting to show her how to do it right. I glance at the foot of my blankets and see my clothes, some of my gear. My combat knife. I tap her shoulder, point at the knife. She shakes her head, but I point again. She gives it to me and scrambles away, leaving the gauze near me. I pick it up, eyes locked on hers, and cut a neat square, show it to her, then a second and third. I sheathe the knife and toss it out of reach.

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  She creeps back toward me like a skittish kitten, takes the gauze squares from me and gingerly places them on one of the wounds. Theres an aged bottle of peroxide on the counter and I point at it. The wounds need to stay clean. She frowns at me, but gets the bottle and hands it to me. I dump a small amount on my wound, and my teeth almost crack from the strain of containing my scream of pain.

  Fuck, it hurts.

  She takes it from me and does the same to the rest of my wounds, and by the end I pass out from the pain. I come to, and shes clumsily taping the gauze on, loose and off-center.

  "No, no. Not like that," I say.

  She starts and drops the tape. I rip off the bandage she did and re-tape it, centered and tight. She watches carefully, and then does the same. Her fingers on my skin are gentle, careful, feather brushes. She looks to me and I nod.

  "Good job. Much better. Thanks. Chokran. "

  She responds, and I shrug. She points at me, says “Chokran,” and then points at herself and repeats what shed said, which I understand to mean "Youre welcome. " I repeat it, and she corrects my pronunciation.

  She touches my chest, and this time I lay back down, slowly moving to the floor, each inch agony. I lay panting, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. I open my eyes to see her watching me, her expression inscrutable.

  I examine her in the light of day. Shes the most beautiful girl Ive ever seen. About my age, twenty-three or twenty-four, a narrow face with high cheekbones, small, delicate ears, full red lips framing a wide mouth. Her eyes are like chocolate, dark and liquid, watching me watch her. Her body is svelte. I remember that word from high school English class. Her waist is narrow, turning her slim hips into tantalizing curves, making her full br**sts even more pronounced. I remember her mimed comment about hunger being the impetus for becoming a prostitute, and realize her thin figure is the result of true hunger rather than any desire to be thin for the sake of appearance.

  She shrinks back under my gaze, realizing Im looking at her appreciatively, like a man looks at a woman. Her eyes harden and her lip curls. Her fists clench.

  I drop my gaze, but I feel her eyes on me a moment longer. She goes to the doorway, peers out, and ducks back in. Her face is shuttered closed, hard, ice-cold. She reapplies lipstick, retouches her blush, too much.

  She has a trick, I realize. Shes totally different, now. Her body is loose, her hips swaying as she moves to the door; before, each motion was tightly controlled, precise. Now, shes like liquid, exuding sultry confidence that I realize is totally faked. She glances at me once as she moves out of sight, and I see a flash of some inscrutable emotion, there and gone.

  I hear a mans voice, hers answering, low and sweet. Fake. The air is still today, and I can hear everything. A jingle of a belt, faintly. Her voice, moaning, fake, too loud. His voice, grunting, porcine.

  Vomit roils in my belly, anger pulses in my chest. Hate. Jealousy. Disgust.

  Where is this coming from?

  I dont know her. Dont even know her name. So why am I reacting this strongly? Theres no answer, but each moment increases the temp
o of my rage, beating with my frantic heartbeat. Each sound makes my gut clench. Her voice, so falsely enthusiastic, shreds my nerves.

  I recognize the emotions now. All together, they form a single feeling: helplessness. I want to stop this, but I cant. Physically, I cant even move. Its her choice, her life, not mine. And Im completely dependent on her.

  Fuck.

  After far too long, a span of maybe ten minutes, she reappears, repeating the process of cleaning herself in the tiny doorless bathroom. She fixes her hair and lipstick and blush and clothes. I dont watch this time.

  She glances at me once shes done fixing herself. I try valiantly to keep my face neutral. I dont know what she sees, but she turns away from me and goes outside, leaning against the outside of her house near the window, just within view. I can see her back, a strip of skin visible between skirt and shirt.

  I shouldnt want to touch that stripe of skin, but I do.

  The desire is overwhelming.

  I lever myself up off the ground, holding my breath against the pain, and then let myself fall back down. Lightning bolts of excruciating pain shoot through me, blinding white, subsuming me until I pass out.

  Darkness floats over me, welcome relief from desires I shouldnt have and dont understand.

  FIVE

  RANIA

  He is asleep. So handsome. I do not understand what is happening to me. From the first moment I saw him, something in him called to my blood and made it sing. Even now, my last client of the day gone as the sun sets, my body thrums merely looking at him.

  His jaw is square and strong, his hair as black as the darkest hour of the night, making his shockingly blue eyes even more vivid. Of course, he is sleeping right now, so I cannot see his eyes, but they sear into me nonetheless, whether I am awake or asleep, working or at rest. His eyes seem to see me, the real me.

  His body. . . pale skin, smooth and hairless except for a thin trail of hair from his navel down beneath the band of his underwear. He is hugely muscled, each limb sleek and thick and powerful. His chest is broad and hard, bulging with muscle even slack in sleep. His belly is like a plowed field, squares of muscle delineated by deep grooves. His arms are like cords of braided rope, each bicep wider than my thigh, his hands large and rough and powerful. His legs are like the twisted trunks of old trees, nearly as wide as my waist

  No man I have ever seen looks like him. Of course, the men I know, they merely jingle their belts and pull out their manhood and do their quick and dirty business on me. They never disrobe entirely. They are never naked. To do so would be allowing themselves to be vulnerable. To stay clothed demonstrates their power over me. I must be naked while they remain clothed and pay me money so they may violate me.

  This man, this American. He is not naked. He has his underwear on, and I have not moved them, so I have not seen him naked. But, even so he seems more fully nude than any man I have ever seen. I want to look away from him, but I cannot, and when I look at him, strange things flutter through me, pulse in the secret places of my heart and soul and body. It is like hunger, but not.