by Eve Rabi
Since I don’t feel like talking, I don’t stop him.
Suddenly, I stiffen. I didn’t hear the door lock. I tiptoe to the door and try the handle. It turns. He’s forgotten to lock me in!
I have the gun and my door is unlocked.
I’m so excited I can barely sit still. Although I’m tempted to leave my room now, I don’t. I wait till everyone’s sleeping.
***
2 a.m. I tiptoe out of my room, a towel draped over my arm to cover the gun. As can be expected, the place is quiet and dark. I walk up to the main door without incident and turn the handle slowly. It’s locked. Shit!
I can shoot at it, but then I will wake everyone up.
Then I remember – Reed carries a bunch of keys.
Breathing heavily, I make my way to Reed’s room and slip inside. Reed lies on his stomach, clad only in a pair of boxers, snoring loudly. I know when I get out of here, he’ll be held responsible. My conscience pricks. Maybe what they’ll do to him is worse than a bullet in the head. I can’t think about that now, I can only think about taking my chance, maybe the only chance I’ll get.
Have to wake him up. He’ll probably freak out when he sees the gun in my hand pointing at him.
I take a deep breath and cock the gun.
It works – he opens his eyes and jerks back. Shock registers in his sleepy eyes, and for a moment he just stares at the gun in my hand.
Then to my disbelief, he draws the covers over his head and rolls away.
What the hell is wrong with him?
“Reed!”
No answer. He starts to snore.
“You’re snoring? I’ve got a gun. Wake up!”
No answer.
I jerk back the sheet. “I need the keys to the front door.”
He opens his eyes and squints at me.
“I need the keys, Reed. Hand them over!” I hold out my hand.
“For what?” His voice is irritable. “How far can you get? There are men outside the front door, men guarding the cars …”
“Look, I don’t want to hurt you, so just give me the fucking keys.”
He props himself up on his elbows. “You want to die? Huh? These men will kill you. Remember the last time?”
I shake my head furiously. “This time … this time … just … just hand over the goddamn keys. Now!”
He sighs and reaches under his pillow for the keys. “Fine. Consider yourself lucky if you are killed. Because if they don’t kill you, you’re going to wish they –”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Just hand them over.”
He holds out the keys. I cautiously reach forward, snatch them and quickly step back, my heart slamming in my chest.
“They’re going to kill me for this, you know.”
I stop walking as his words hit home.
“Whenever I could, I’ve helped you, Megan.”
He’s right. Should I abort plans? I have a gun and the keys to the front door. Don’t make this complicated, Megan, he isn’t a friend, he’s collateral damage.
Reed is wide awake now and watching me.
Slowly, I turn around and look at him, my weapon trained on his chest. “It’s not negotiable, Reed. I’m getting out of here, tonight. I can tie you up, hit you over the head, and you can say that the crazy bitch attacked you with a gun, that’s the last thing you remember.”
His response is to drop back on the bed, ignoring my suggestion.
I shrug inwardly and keep moving.
Now that I have the gun and keys, my confidence soars. With my eyes fixed on him, I slowly back out of the room. Once out, I shut the door and race to the main door of the bunker. The door to my freedom.
I stick the key in. It doesn’t turn. It’s the correct key but …
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I jimmy the lock. Nothing. I try the key again.
“Megan, don’t!”
I whirl around and point the gun at a shirtless Reed, his eyes bleary with sleep but his expression alert.
“Hand it over, Megan.” His voice is tense and quiet.
“I need to get out of here, Reed,” I say, waving my gun at him. “Don’t try and stop me.”
“Megan listen … listen …”
“No!”
“Just listen! There are men behind this door and more outside.” He’s whispering now. “They will kill you. No, don’t shake your head! Just hear what I’m saying. You’re being really …”
“Stay away from me, or I’ll be forced to shoot. I have to get out of here. I can’t take this place anymore!”
“Okay … okay … I understand. But, tonight’s not the night, Megan.”
When I continue shaking my head, he clams up.
“Don’t think I haven’t blasted a guy’s face off before.”
Suddenly, he flings himself at me, taking us both down, the gun flying out of my hands.
“What the fuck, Reed?!” I hiss while I struggle to break free.
“You are being stupid.”
“Stay out of this.” I scramble up and look around for my precious gun.
We spot it at the same time, and both of us lunge for it. I get to it first. Reed grabs a fistful of my blouse. I jerk out of it and it rips, setting me free. He loses his balance and falls. As I try to run off, he grabs my ankle and I fall, but still, I manage to hold onto the gun, squirm around, and point it at him. The gun goes off and the bullet smashes into the wall behind him, missing his face by inches. He stares at me, his eyes large and bulging. I stare, mouth agape. I didn’t mean to shoot, it just happened.
“You bitch!” he yells, and throws himself at me, removing himself from the line of fire and slamming my hand to the ground.
The gun once again flies out of my hands and skitters across the tiled floor. I scream in agony and roll onto my side, clutching my injured wrist.
Breathing heavily, Reed picks up the gun and points it at me.
The sound of heavy footsteps makes us both freeze. The guards from the outside are opening the main door.
Aghast, Reed and I look at each other. I’m dead. They’re going to shoot me when they hear that I tried to escape.
Suddenly, I grab Reed, shove him against the wall, and kiss him. At first Reed seems shocked. He recovers quickly and kisses me back. I don’t protest – I’m frozen with fear at the sound of footsteps approaching.
Four guards rush inside, rifles pointed at us. Must be quite a sight – my shirt’s ripped, Reed is shirtless, and we’re kissing.
When the guard questions Reed, he musters a sheepish look and makes light of things in Arabic, tossing my hair as if the joke is on me.
The guards’ stares intensify, and their rifles remain raised. Feeling a rising panic, I move closer to Reed and slip my arm around his waist.
Finally, the guards reluctantly lower their rifles and snigger.
Reed grins and plants a kiss on my cheek. He picks up the gun, slips his arm around my waist and says, “Let’s go back to bed.”
I remain where I am.
He shoves me forward, then steers me back to my room under the watchful eyes of the guards.
“You’re an asshole,” I whisper.
His grip on my elbow tightens. “Shut up and walk!”
“Fuck you! I could have gone. This is my second attempt to escape, and again, I fucked up.”
“You shot at me.”
“You deserved it.”
“Do anything like that again and …”
I spin around to face him, my frustration peaking, my anger boiling over.
“I will kill you,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Fuck you! Kill me then. It’s better.”
We’re outside my door. He shoves me into my room. I stumble and fall.
He kicks the door shut and glares at me.
As I lie on the floor, something inside me snaps. “You’re a dog. A lowlife. A doctor? My ass. Probably bought your medical certificate from some Internet shop in Khazistan. You have children, but you live here?”
“I hate you. I hate this place. I loathe Iraq. Should have just bombed the entire place and called it quits.”
“Fuck you!” he says.
“Fuck you right back, you moron.” I’m no longer coherent or rational. Words spew out of me as if someone else is talking. My voice sounds strange to my ears. I stand up.
“Where you going?”
“None of your –”
He sticks out his arm to stop me. I slap it away. He grabs me and we struggle. When I can’t fight him, I sink my teeth into his arm. He slaps me across the face. I fly at him, scratching and hitting him, unleashing months of frustration.
After a lengthy struggle, he finally pins me to the bed. I try to scratch him, so he anchors both arms over my head. When I try to knee him in the groin, he pins my legs down with his heavy thighs.
Any further attempt to wriggle free is met with a strait-jacket like grip by him. Breathless and flushed, he continues his physical hold on me, watching and waiting, ready for anything I throw back at him.
Exhausted from my struggle, I finally cease fighting. My body relaxes, but his grip does not. His hands squeeze my injured wrists. I close my eyes and shake my head from side to side. “One day –”
“What?” His tone is sneering.
Is he mocking me? “One day, we’ll kill you all!”
His snort fuels my anger.
“In the Army we have a chant for the likes of you. Wanna hear it?” Before he can answer, I say, “One shot, one kill, one Arab.”
He stiffens.
“Cool huh? I have more. Wanna hear them?”
He responds by tightening his grip on my wrists and deliberately relaxing his body weight on me, making it difficult for me to even breathe. Each time he moves his head, the lights from the bright chandelier above blinds me, forcing me to shut my eyes. “My husband …was right … about you.”
“What?”
“You’re just a bunch of fucking sand niggers!”
“Sand niggers, huh?”
“Fuckin’… fuckin’…You all fuckin’ deserve to fuckin’ die. Every fuckin’ one of you!”
“Really? If you weren’t a woman, I’d beat the shit out of you right now, you nasty, ungrateful bitch!”
“Get the fuck off me!”
He scowls at me.
As we enter into a staring competition, anger rises in me and fuels the fear – that he is holding me back. That I’m never going to get away from this God-forsaken prison.
Forgotten.
What a word – for …got ... ten!
But he has the gun on him. What if I distract him enough to steal it? Then I can get another chance to blow this place.
Think, Megan, think.
He liked it when I kissed him – perhaps I can do it again. I’m a woman; I can use that to my advantage. But that makes me angry to think I have to resort to those measures to obtain something as basic as freedom. The anger, the rage – it twists inside me and becomes something searing and dangerous, a weapon I can finally exercise against him.
I suddenly chuckle. A madwoman’s chuckle.
“What? What’s so funny?” I feel him relaxing a little.
“The guards – did you see their faces when they saw us kissing?” My voice becomes sultry and light.
It works better than I thought it would; the gullible fucker grins and relaxes the grip on one of my hands.
For a few moments, he looks down at me, a slight smile on his mug.
Slowly my free hand snakes around his neck. When he doesn’t resist, I draw his head down to mine and kiss him.
Immediately, he releases my other hand. Taking advantage of that, I up the intensity of my kiss, my caressing hands travelling strategically down his back towards the gun in his belt. He’s too distracted by my tongue in his mouth to realize what I’m doing. With a low growl, he meets my kisses, harder, more passionate than I could have imagined. I’m surprised by his desperation and urgency.
When he holds me with both hands, I make my move – I grab the gun and smash the barrel against the side of his head.
And miss. He moved.
Stunned, we stare at each other. Before I can react, he knocks my arm so hard, the gun flies out of it and lands on a chair. Miraculously, it does not go off.
He looks at me and smiles. “Now, where were we?” He smiles. The son of a bitch smiles as if I wouldn’t kill him.
When he kisses me, I jerk my head. “Stop! I don’t want to kiss you.”
“You don’t? But you started this, Megan. Twice. Now finish it.”
“You just stop!” I hiss. “I was just trying to distract you so I could get the fucking gun, you moron. Stop this shit!”
“Really? You were playing with me, my feelings?”
I roll my eyes, not knowing what to say.
“I really like you.” His lips move to my neck. “You’re very pretty.”
“Stop! Stop you bastard!”
“So pretty …”
Suddenly, he’s quiet and his breathing is labored.
“Let me go!” I say as I angle my neck to spot the gun lost somewhere in my room.
But he doesn’t let me go.
As exhaustion sets in, his knee forces my legs apart, and he thrusts into me. Once, twice, a sobbing groan – his, not mine.
Then it’s over.
Feels like a lifetime, but it’s over in minutes.
When he’s done, he holds me tenderly and gently kisses my lips.
My eyes are tightly shut. “Leave,” I whisper.
His arms tighten around me.
“Leave,” I repeat through clenched lips.
Still, no response.
“Then I will leave.” I shove him off me.
He clutches at me like he’s a drowning man.
I shrug him off hard, drape a sheet around me, and start to head for my bathroom.
He grabs my arm. “Don’t go!”
I turn my neck to look pointedly at his hand on my arm.
“Please,” he whispers in a voice that’s unfamiliar to me – too faint, too desperate. “Stay with me, Megan.”
“Fuck you!” I say in a flat, equally unfamiliar voice.
He releases my arm and falls back onto the bed, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
I stagger to the bathroom. At the door, for some reason, I pause and look back at him.
The pain in his eyes, it confuses me. Then I enter the bathroom and shut the door.
When I return, he’s left my room.
I crawl into bed, and as I lie shell-shocked in the fetal position amidst shards of broken trust, I hold a funeral for Angel-man – my protector, my doctor, my defender, my friend who assured me that I was valuable to the insurgents of Iraq, the man who slept in a chair all night to prevent me from being raped, the man who got pistol-whipped because of me, the man who washed my hair and brought me chocolates.
A funeral for him and for my peace of mind.
Chapter Ten
It’s 5:30 a.m. In a daze, I slide out of bed, take a shower, and slowly get dressed. In my cocoon of denial, I ignore my purple bruises, aching body, and trembling hands.
So what if I didn’t get any sleep? Sleep is overrated.
So what if I was raped? Women get raped every day. I’m different – I’m a soldier. I can take anything.
If I can handle being shot, I can take this. If I can handle being a POW, I can handle this.
If it was brutal, it would be a different thing. I know the drill – just accept it and move on.
Remember the Army’s saying: “Drink water, drive one.” Just suck it up.
My life could have been so much worse right now – could have been raped by Nazim and Bilal. At the thought of those two, a shudder runs through me.
Leeanne always tells me to count my blessings. I should. Let’s see:
Leeanne, Bygone, the comfortable bunker, good food, clean water, orange-scented sham … no, not orange-scented shampoo. Definit
ely not orange-scented shampoo. He liked the way my hair smelled. Leeanne … I’ve already counted, Leeanne. No shackles! That’s a blessing in itself. What else …?
As I steer around in auto-pilot, fetching this, bandaging that, my smile is saccharine, my step is a beat away from bouncy, my back is as straight as a ballerina from Swan Lake, and I carry out my chores with aplomb.
The only time my step falters is when I feel someone staring at me. I don’t have to look up to know it’s him. For a nanosecond, I’m paralyzed at the mere thought of seeing him. But then I take a few diaphragmatic breaths, straighten my already straight back, and hurry away.
Coffee … hot water … milk … kind Iraqis …
I don’t eat. Just don’t feel like it. As for drinking – can’t remember if I did drink anything. Doesn’t matter. The weakness I’m feeling – it’ll pass. Drink water, drive one.
“Megan?”
I look up into Leeanne’s face.
“Something wrong? Whachu doing with that piece of paper?”
I look at my hands – I’ve taken a page and torn it into a million pieces. Quickly, I crumple the pieces and throw it into the trash. “Nothing.” I dismiss her concern with a wave of my hand.
“O … kay,” she says and walks away.
As I turn around, I run into Reed. Literally. As if I’ve been touched with a cattle prod, I jerk back and almost lose my balance.
“Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at me, then looking away.
Keeping my eyes averted, I hastily side-step him and dash off to the kitchen. With my breath in spurts, I lean over the sink and fight the urge to vomit. How do I go back into the ward and face him for the rest of the day? For the rest of the week? For the rest of my stay in this God-forsaken place?
I can’t do it. I don’t think I can. I don’t want to. God, I wish I had a drink! Wish I had some drug that will keep me stoned and make me oblivious to everything and everyone for the rest of my stay here. For the rest of my life, for that matter.
Still on auto-pilot, I put the kettle on to make myself a cup of tea. When I sip on my tea, it’s cold. I’ve forgotten to boil the water. Hastily, I dump the tea into the sink. Well, at least I have the kitchen to hide in while I fight for composure.
When people stream into the kitchen, I’m forced to give up my shelter. As if the ward is fraught with landmines, I gingerly negotiate my way back, the corners of my eyes working overtime to detect Him (I refuse to say his name anymore, even in my head), so I can avoid him.