R.V. Roush
I�m still dead tired, and I feel sweat rolling down my face. Somebody�s daubing coagulant on my wound so that I can�t bleed away, can�t die. I�m tired of bolting upright in the chair until my back feels as if I�ve been moving pianos all day.
�You�re tired, aren�t you,� Andy knows about my fatigue. He�s so understanding, but I don�t think he�ll show me any sympathy.
�I�m tired, too, but of hearing you scream,� Andy says. �I�m tired of hearing �I don�t know.� I�m going to let you mull over your reluctance now. Take him away.�
I feel pressure being applied to my sore arm. I don�t have enough strength in my body to raise my head as my captors snuggly wrap a long strip of clean gauze around my upper arm. I get a sense of deja vu. Didn�t they just wrap my arm earlier, but only to slow the blood flow, and they took the wrap off after about 20 minutes. The blood-soaked gauze had looked heavy, was the color of iron. But then I feel my body being lifted from the chair, feel the blindfold being wrapped around my head, see the darkness as the blindfold blots out the light from the desk lamp.
Then I feel my mouth being pried open. Someone shoves two pills down my throat and holds the cool rim of a glass to my lips, tipping it teasingly. I try to push my face into the glass, realize that the glass is being withheld when I push for more, and try to moderate my desire.
After I drink the glass of water, I feel myself being dragged from the room. At one point, the toes of my shoes stop scuffing the floor and I feel the air move as one of the men reach to insert a key into a door lock. I feel the ropes being cut from my wrists. My arms fall to my side in a burst of pain and my knees buckle. The men catch me under the armpits and throw me into a room, where I feel another hand reach for me and hold me in a sitting position. Somebody reaches for and removes the blindfold, putting it in his pocket so he would have it for later, when they walk me back to the torture room. His face remains in the shadows.
I can�t think. I�m face to face with the men. It strikes me that they don�t care that I see them. That means they�re going to kill me. I can�t understand the need for the blindfold if that�s the case. Just another puzzle for my boggled head.
�He�ll start on the other arm. For years, you�ll yell every time you try to scratch your ass. Give us your clothes.�
�Huh?� I sigh.
�Just do it, Trent,� I hear Jack�s familiar voice filtered and hollow, sounding like an echo in a can behind me, coaxing me to cooperate.
�C�mon, take�em off.�
The guards hustle me out of my shoes and socks. Unraveling my tie, they pull me out of my pants and shirt. They let me sit on the floor in my underwear.
They leave and pull the heavy door shut behind them. The light from the hallway diminishes, a sliver squeezing under the doorway. I feel Jack�s warm bare chest against my back, holding me upright. I rest for several minutes like this, probably fall asleep in the darkness. Sometime later, I find myself slumped on the cold floor in my underwear, the palms of my hands cooling on the floor. I can�t hold myself up. My arms feel like bicycle kickstands in beach sand. Placing too much weight on my mangled arm, I scream and fall over sideways onto my other arm.
�Careful, Trent,� Jack tells me. �It hurts like hell every time I move my arm, but I think they gave me morphine, though I don�t know why.�
�One more weakness to exploit.� I take a deep breath, let it out with a raspy sound. �You�ll want it, they�ll keep it from you. You want the pain to stop, they�ll keep it up. Keep us here long enough, we�ll become physically addicted. Want us to know who�s in control.�
�I can�t figure out what they want,� Jack whimpers. �That sadistic bastard keeps telling me I�ve been passing trade secrets to Integrated, but I haven�t, and he wants to know what they�ve been.�
I don�t understand how that kind of information can help them. Not in court, cause we won�t be alive to testify. It�s all a distraction, I remind myself. What else did Andy mention wanting? What else?
I press my weight against the sturdy surface, molding the flesh of my shoulder into the material. I force my weak legs to hold me until I discover the edge of the bed that I saw just before the hall light was blotted out by the closing door.
Then I lose all desire to stand and instead collapse onto the bed, where I sleep until food is brought to us later that evening.
�Hey, wake up, both of you� one of the guards bellows. �Time to eat. We�re nothing if not compassionate. All soft food so you might be able to keep it down.�
I forget my pain and lift my left arm to shield my eyes from the hallway light. When the pain hits, my back arches and I howl. I clamp my eyes shut against the pain and the light.
�We�ll be back in half an hour to get your plate,� one of the men says as they exit. I hear their footsteps, clanky on the steel floor. I torment myself for not getting a look at the room and open my eyes in time to see that the metal walls are seamed every four feet with overlapping steel couplings�studded with bolts whose heads are the size of pennies. The room is about the size and comfort of a poorly appointed bunker on a 40�s navy carrier. The only window, unreachably high in the wall, is painted black. There is a metal frame bed. The room smells of familiar chemicals that have lost their toxicity.
� 2004 R.V. Roush