Keep Me

by Anna Zaires

  As the light of the rising sun filters into the room, I stop to examine what I painted. It looks abstract at first—just swirls of red, black, and brown—but a closer inspection reveals something different. All the swirls are faces and bodies, people tangled together in a paroxysm of violent ecstasy. The faces reveal both agony and pleasure, lust and torment.

  It’s probably my best work to date, and I hate it.

  I hate it because it shows me how much I’ve changed. How little of the old me remains.

  “Wow, honey, this is amazing . . .” My mom’s voice startles me out of my musings, and I turn around to see her standing in the doorway, gazing at the painting with genuine admiration. “That French instructor of yours must be really good.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Bernard is excellent,” I agree, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice. I’m so tired that I just want to collapse, but that’s not an option at the moment.

  “You didn’t sleep well, did you?” My mom furrows her forehead, looking worried, and I know I didn’t succeed in hiding my tiredness from her. “Were you thinking about him?”

  “Of course I was.” A sudden swell of anger sharpens my voice. “He’s my husband, you know.”

  She blinks, clearly taken aback, and I immediately regret my harsh tone. This situation is not my mom’s fault; if anyone is blameless in all this, it’s my parents. My temper is the last thing they deserve . . . particularly since my desperate plan will likely cause them even more anguish.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, going over to give her a hug. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s okay, honey.” She strokes my hair, her touch so gentle and comforting that I want to weep. “I understand.”

  I nod, even though I know she can’t possibly comprehend the extent of my stress. She can’t—because she doesn’t know that I’m waiting.

  Waiting to be taken by the same monsters who have Julian.

  Waiting for Al-Quadar to snap at the bait.

  * * *

  The morning drags by. It’s a Saturday, so both of my parents are home. They’re happy about that, but I’m not. I wish they were at work today. I want to be alone if—no, when—Majid’s goons come for me. It had been relatively safe to spend the night, since Al-Quadar would need time to put whatever plan they have into action, but now that it’s morning, I don’t want my parents near me. The security detail Julian put in place around my family would ensure their safety, but those same bodyguards may also interfere with my abduction—and that’s the last thing I want.

  “Shopping?” My dad gives me a strange look when I announce my intention to hit the stores after breakfast. “Are you sure, honey? You just got home, and with everything going on—”

  “Dad, I’ve been in the middle of nowhere for months.” I give him my best men-just-don’t-get-it look. “You have no idea what that’s like for a girl.” Seeing that he’s unconvinced, I add, “Seriously, Dad, I could use the distraction.”

  “She’s got a point,” my mom chimes in. Turning toward me, she gives me a conspiratorial wink and tells my dad, “There’s nothing like shopping to take a woman’s mind off things. I’ll go with Nora—it’ll be just like the old times.”

  My heart sinks. I can’t have my mom coming along if the point is to have my parents away from potential danger. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mom,” I say regretfully, “but I already promised Leah I’d meet her. It’s spring break, you know, and she’s home.” I had seen an update to that effect on Facebook earlier this morning, so I’m only partially lying. My friend is indeed in town—I just hadn’t made any plans to see her today.

  “Oh, okay.” My mom looks hurt for a moment, but then she shakes it off and gives me a bright smile. “No worries, honey. We’ll see you after you catch up with your friends. I’m glad you’re distracting yourself like that. It’s for the best, really . . .”

  My dad still looks suspicious, but there is nothing he can do. I’m an adult, and I’m not exactly asking for their permission.

  As soon as breakfast is over, I give them each a kiss and a hug and walk over to the bus stop on 95th street to get on the bus going to the Chicago Ridge Mall.

  * * *

  Come on, take me already. Fucking take me already.

  I have been wandering through the mall for hours, and to my frustration, there is still no sign of Al-Quadar. They either don’t know that I’m here, or they don’t care about me now that they have Julian.

  I refuse to entertain the latter possibility because if it’s true, Julian is as good as dead.

  The plan has to work. There is no other alternative. Majid simply needs more time. Time to sniff out that I’m here alone and unprotected—a convenient tool that they can use to force Julian to give them what they want.

  “Nora? Holy shit, Nora, is that you?” A familiar voice yanks me out of my thoughts, and I turn around to see my friend Leah gaping at me with astonishment.

  “Leah!” For a second, I forget all about the danger and rush forward to embrace the girl who had been my best friend for ages. “I had no idea you would be here!” And it’s true—despite my lie to my parents this morning, I had not expected to run into Leah like that. In hindsight, though, I probably should have, since we used to hang out at this mall nearly every weekend when we were younger.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks when we get the hug out of the way. “I thought you were in Colombia!”

  “I was—I mean, I am.” Now that the initial excitement is over, I’m realizing that running into Leah could be problematic. The last thing I want is for my friend to suffer because of me. “I’m just here for a brief visit,” I explain hurriedly, casting a worried look around. All seems to be normal, so I continue, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was home, but things were kind of hectic and, well, you know how it is . . .”

  “Right, you must be busy with your new husband and stuff,” she says slowly, and I can feel the distance between us growing even though we haven’t moved an inch. We haven’t spoken since I told her about my marriage—just exchanged a few brief emails—and I see now that she still questions my sanity . . . that she no longer understands the person I’ve become.

  I don’t blame her for that. Sometimes I don’t understand that person either.

  “Leah, babe, there you are!” A man’s voice interrupts our conversation, and my heart jumps as a familiar male figure approaches Leah from behind me.

  It’s Jake—the boy I once had a crush on.

  The boy Julian stole me from that fateful night in the park.

  Only he’s not a boy anymore. His shoulders are heavier now; his face is leaner and harder. At some point in the past few months, he’s become a man—a man who only has eyes for Leah. Stopping next to her, he bends down to give her a kiss and says in a low, teasing voice, “Babe, I got you that present . . .”

  Leah’s pale cheeks turn beet-red. “Um, Jake,” she mumbles, tugging on his arm to draw his attention to my presence, “look who I just ran into.”

  He turns toward me, and his brown eyes go round with shock. “Nora? What—what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, you know . . . just—just some shopping . . .” I hope I don’t sound as dumbfounded as I feel. Leah and Jake? My best friend Leah and my former crush Jake? It’s as if my world just tilted on its axis. I had no idea they were dating. I knew Leah broke up with her boyfriend a couple of months ago because she mentioned it in an email, but she never told me she’d hooked up with Jake.

  As I look at them, standing next to each other with identical uncomfortable expressions on their faces, I realize it’s not altogether illogical. They both go to the University of Michigan, and they have an overlapping circle of friends and acquaintances from our high school. They even have a traumatic experience in common—having their friend/date abducted—that could’ve brought them closer together.

  I also realize in that moment that all I feel when I look at them is relief.

  Relief that they seem happy together
, that the darkness from my life didn’t leave a permanent stain on Jake’s. There’s no regret for what might have been, no jealousy—only an anxiety that grows with every minute Julian spends in Al-Quadar’s hands.

  “I’m sorry, Nora,” Leah says, giving me a wary look. “I should’ve told you about us earlier. It’s just that—”

  “Leah, please.” Pushing aside my stress and exhaustion, I manage to give her a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to explain. Really. I’m married, and Jake and I only had one date. You don’t owe me any explanations . . . I was just surprised, that’s all.”

  “Do you want to, um, grab some coffee with us?” Jake offers, sliding his arm around Leah’s waist in a gesture that strikes me as unusually protective. I wonder if it’s me he’s protecting her from. If so, he’s even smarter than I thought.

  “We could catch up since you’re in town and all,” he continues, and I shake my head in refusal.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t,” I say, and the regret in my voice is genuine. I desperately want to catch up with them, but I can’t have them near me in case Al-Quadar chooses this particular moment to strike. I have no idea how the terrorists would get to me in the middle of a crowded mall, but I’m certain they’ll find a way. Glancing down at my phone, I pretend to be dismayed at the time and say apologetically, “I’m afraid I’m already running late . . .”

  “Is your husband here with you?” Leah asks, frowning, and I see Jake’s face turning white. He probably didn’t consider the possibility of Julian being nearby when he extended his invitation to me.

  I shake my head, my throat tightening as the horrible reality of the situation threatens to choke me again. “No,” I say, hoping I sound halfway normal. “He couldn’t make it.”

  “Oh, okay.” Leah’s frown deepens, a puzzled look entering her eyes, but Jake regains some of his color. He’s obviously relieved that he won’t be confronted by the ruthless criminal who’s caused him so much grief.

  “I really have to run,” I say, and Jake nods, his grip on Leah’s waist tightening to keep her close.

  “Good luck,” he says to me, and I can tell he’s glad I’m leaving. He’s been raised to be polite, however, so he adds, “It was good seeing you,” though his eyes say something different.

  I give him an understanding smile. “You too,” I say and, waving goodbye to Leah, I head for the mall exit.

  * * *

  I forget about Jake and Leah as soon as I step out into the parking lot. Painfully alert, I scan the area before reluctantly pulling out my phone and calling for a cab. I would hang out at the mall longer, but I don’t want to chance running into my friends again. My next stop will be Michigan Avenue in Chicago, where I can browse some high-end stores while praying that I get taken before I completely lose my mind.

  The cold wind bites through my clothes as I stand there waiting, my thigh-length peacoat and thin cashmere sweater offering little protection from the chilly temperature outside. It takes a solid half hour before the cab finally pulls up to the curb. By that time, I’m half-frozen, and my nerves are stretched so tightly I’m ready to scream.

  Yanking the door open, I climb into the back of the car. It’s a clean-looking cab, with a thick glass partition separating the front seat from the back and the windows in the back lightly tinted. “The city, please.” My voice is sharper than it needs to be. “The stores on Michigan Avenue.”

  “Sure thing, miss,” the driver says softly, and my head snaps up at the hint of accent in his voice. My eyes lock with his in the front mirror, and I freeze as a bolt of pure terror shoots down my spine.

  He could’ve been one of a thousand immigrants driving a cab for a living, but he’s not.

  He’s Al-Quadar. I can see it in the cold malevolence of his gaze.

  They have finally come for me.

  It’s what I have been waiting for, but now that the moment is here, I find myself paralyzed by a fear so intense, it chokes me from within. My mind flashes into the past, and the memories are so vivid, it’s almost as if I’m there again. I feel the pain of barely healed stitches in my side, see the dead bodies of the guards at the clinic, hear Beth’s screams . . . and then I taste vomit at the back of my throat as Majid touches my face with a blood-covered finger.

  I must’ve gone as pale as a sheet because the driver’s gaze hardens, and I hear the faint click of car door locks being activated.

  The sound galvanizes me into action. Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I dive for the door and jerk at the handle while screaming at the top of my lungs. I know it’s useless, but I need to try—and, more importantly, I need to give the appearance of trying. I can’t sit calmly while they take me back to hell.

  I can’t let them find out that this time I want to go back there.

  As the car begins moving, I continue wrestling with the door and banging on the window. The driver ignores me as he peels out of the parking lot at top speed, and none of the mall visitors seem to notice anything wrong, the tinted windows of the car hiding me from their gaze.

  We don’t go far. Instead of getting out onto the highway, the car swings around to the back of the building. I see a beige van waiting for us, and I struggle harder, my nails breaking as I claw at the door with a desperation that’s only partially feigned. In my rush to rescue Julian, I hadn’t fully considered what it would mean to be taken by the monsters of my nightmares—to go through something so horrific again—and the terror that swamps me is only slightly lessened by the fact that this situation is of my own doing.

  The driver pulls up next to the van, and the locks click open. Pushing open the door, I scramble out on all fours, scraping my palms on rough asphalt, but before I can get to my feet, a hard arm clamps around my waist and a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my screams.

  I hear orders being barked out in Arabic as I’m carried to the van, kicking and struggling, and then I see a fist flying toward my face.

  There’s an explosion of pain in my skull, and then there’s nothing else.

  Chapter 27

  Julian

  I drift in and out of consciousness, the periods of wakeful agony interspersed with short stretches of soothing darkness. I don’t know if it’s been hours, days, or weeks, but it feels like I’ve been here forever, at the mercy of Majid and the pain.

  I haven’t slept. They don’t let me sleep. I gain respite only when my mind shuts down from the torment, and they have ways of bringing me back when I’m under for too long.

  They waterboard me first. I find it funny, in a kind of perverse way. I wonder if they’re doing it because they know I’m part-American, or if they just think it’s an efficient method of breaking someone without inflicting severe damage.

  They do it a few dozen times, pushing me to the brink of death and then bringing me back. It feels like I’m drowning over and over again, and my body fights for air with a desperation that seems out of place given the situation. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they accidentally drowned me; my mind knows that, but my body struggles to live. Every second with that wet rag on my face feels like an eternity, the trickle of water somehow more terrifying than the sharpest blade.

  They pause every once in a while and throw questions at me, promising to stop if only I would answer. And when my lungs feel like they’re bursting, I want to give in. I want to put an end to this—yet something inside me won’t let me. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of winning, of letting them kill me while knowing that they achieved what they wanted.

  As my body strains for air, my father’s voice comes to me.

  “Are you going to cry? Are you going to cry like your mama’s pretty boy or face me like a man?”

  I’m four years old again, cowering in the corner as my father kicks me repeatedly in the ribs. I know the right answer to his question—I know I need to face him—but I’m scared. I’m so scared. I can feel the wetness on my face, and I know it will make him angry. I don’t mean to cry. I haven’t truly cried
since I was a baby, but the pain in my ribs makes my eyes water. If my mother were here, she’d hold me and kiss me, but she doesn’t come near me when my father is in this kind of mood. She’s too afraid of him.

  I hate my father. I hate him, and I want to be like him all at once. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be the one with the power, the one everyone’s afraid of.

  Rolling up into a little ball, I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the betraying moisture off my face, and then I get to my feet, ignoring my fear and the ache in my bruised ribs.

  “I’m not going to cry.” Swallowing the knot in my throat, I look up to meet my father’s angry gaze. “I’m never going to cry.”

  Curses in Arabic. More wetness on my face.

  My mind is violently wrenched back to the present as I convulse, gagging and sucking in air when the soaked rag is removed. My lungs expand greedily, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear Majid yelling at the man who almost killed me.

  Well, fuck. Looks like this portion of the fun is over.

  They start with the needles next. Long, thick needles that they drive under my toenails and fingernails. I’m able to bear this better, my mind divorcing itself from my tortured body and taking me back to the past.

  I’m nine now. My father brought me to the city for negotiations with his suppliers. I’m sitting on the steps, guarding the entrance to the building, a gun tucked into my belt underneath my T-shirt. I know how to use this gun; I already killed two men with it. I threw up after the first one, earning myself a beating, but the second kill had been easier. I didn’t even flinch when I pulled the trigger.

  A few teenage boys walk out onto the street. I recognize their tattoos; they’re part of a local gang. My father probably used them at some point to distribute his product, but right now they appear to be bored and at loose ends.