As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (86)

And without thinking, I move.

I grab a discarded basin and fling it at the soldier’s back. It promptly hits him and clatters to the floor. Silence settles over the atrium, broken only by the soldier’s grunt of pain. My arm shakes as the soldier turns slowly.

Better me than the little girl.

His gaze rolls over me and the trembling spreads all over my body.

“Did you just throw that?” he barks.

At his tone, Kenan immediately clamps his hand in mine and pulls me back, but the soldier is faster. He grabs my other arm, yanking me out of Kenan’s grasp, and I turn to glimpse the shock and terror in Kenan’s eyes as I’m suddenly slammed against the wall.

The soldier’s forearm presses against my throat, holding me tightly in place, a squeeze away from being strangled.

“You think you’re real brave, huh?” he says, spitting the words.

From the corners of my eyes I see Kenan restrained by two soldiers. His face contorts with fury, curses spilling from his mouth. One of them slams the butt of his gun against Kenan’s face, and blood spurts from his cheek. I try to get to him, but the soldier shoves me back against the wall. Hard enough that I can’t breathe for a bit.

“You work here? You’re healing these rebels? All these traitors?” he sneers.

“Get off me,” I snarl, not knowing where the courage is coming from. But I don’t fear death. Khawf has shown me the worst outcomes. And what stands before me is no man, only an animal in human skin.

The soldier laughs and lets go of me. Before I fully comprehend what’s happening, a sharp pain shoots through the side of my head and I’m slammed against the wall again. I groan, eyes closed, trying to get my bearings through the hammering in my brain. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s hit me with the metallic part of his rifle. I wipe my arm over my lips and find them coated with blood. It hurts to breathe, the air coming in and out in wheezes. It hurts even more to look at Kenan and see pure fear in his eyes.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” I hear the soldier snap.

“I’ll kill you!” Kenan bellows, blood dripping to the floor.

The soldier turns toward him, raises his gun right at Kenan’s temple, and I scream.

“No!”

He stops, the gun still pressed against Kenan’s forehead. Kenan’s face betrays no fear. Not for himself. Only for me. The soldier glances at me. “No?”

I stare at him with hate-filled eyes that are dripping with tears.

“Then how about this?” His gaze gleams. “I let your boyfriend live so he can watch this, huh?”

Anger chokes my throat.

“We don’t have time for this,” his friend says in a low voice, yanking Kenan back as he struggles. Kenan swears and the soldier hits him in the face. “The rebels could be near. The military won’t make it here. We need to buy time until they—”

“We have time,” the soldier interrupts, and he grabs at me. My mind snaps as soon as he touches me, and I twist against him, kicking.

The patients behind us watch the macabre spectacle unfold with terrified eyes, not one of them daring to move. To say anything. And I don’t blame them.

He shoves the barrel of the rifle under my chin. It smells of blood and smoke. I cough.

“Go to hell,” I snarl, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.

He smiles, inching the rifle’s mouth deeper, until it nearly punctures my skin.

Before I can blink, the rifle clatters to the floor, and he seizes my arms in a death grip. He’s bigger and well fed, while I’m surviving on fumes. He pushes me against an empty bed and I scream, clawing at his face. He grasps both of my wrists in one hand, immobilizing me, half leaning on top of my body, facing me. He reeks of stale cigarettes and sweat.

“Let her go!” Kenan yells despite the gun being pointed at his head. A second soldier comes up behind him and slams his rifle against Kenan’s back.

I spit in the soldier’s face. My saliva is reddish as it trails down his cheek, and it only makes him laugh, wiping it away while his other hand tightens around my wrists.

“Hit him again,” he says, and Kenan lurches forward with the force of another blow, a gasp wrenched from his aching lungs.

“Don’t give up, Salama.” Khawf’s voice cuts into my mind. I can’t see him, but his tone is sharp, prompting a shot of adrenaline to clear away the hazy panic. “Don’t.”

“It’s been a while since someone put up a fight. I like it,” the soldier sneers. He runs his free hand along my body. Revulsion sours my blood and I jerk my knee up between us, but he anticipates it, pressing his own down on my thigh until stars burst in my eyes from the pain. My thigh blisters with agony and I’m sure the skin is bruised.

I hear the clink of metal along a belt, a zipper pulling down, and reality begins to set in. I twist in place, screaming until my throat is raw. He ignores me, his eyes full of malicious glee and his mouth hitched, and he sticks his hand under my sweater, touching my bare skin. I swallow a scream and, reacting on instinct, slam my head against his. There’s no room for shock to paralyze my limbs when anger is burning through me. Fueling me. Safety is two days away. I’ve lost Mama, Baba, Hamza, Layla, and Baby Salama. I’ve learned to see the colors and I’ve found my own version of happiness. I’m owed myself.