Internment(74)

The door opens again. “We need to go,” he says. He leads me down the narrow hall. As we step into admin, the door momentarily hides our faces from the camera in the corner, and he whispers, “Be brave.”

The same words Jake said to me. But how am I supposed to be brave when I’m terrified?

He opens the door to the Director’s office. The early-morning sun brightens the room. The Director stares out the window. “Thank you, soldier. You can leave now,” he says without turning around. Fred hesitates for a split second, then exits.

There is no one else in the room. We are alone. A solitary inquisition.

“Have a seat, Miss Amin.” The Director continues to stare out the window, speaking with his back to me.

I sit and wait. And wait. The Director doesn’t turn toward me. The room is silent except for his loud breathing and his occasional guttural throat clearing. He taps on the window. The silence feels loaded. I’m pretty certain it is meant to intimidate me—and it’s working. I want to scream or cry out, end the silence, but I don’t want to give the Director the satisfaction.

I grip the arms of the chair. The sweat from my hands makes them slippery, but I hold on like my life depends on it. I close my eyes, try to breathe through the dread. I inhale and focus on my own breath traveling through my body before exhaling. I feel its resonance in my bones. I mute the Director’s breathing and tapping until it disappears.

Inside me, it is still. And through the silence, I hear voices: You’re not alone. David. Jake. Ayesha. My mom. My dad. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.

I listen. And from the dark quiet that scares me, I discover that love lives in the deepest silence.

The Director is still at the window, pretending to survey the camp. He plans to keep me waiting. To wait me out. But I see his tense shoulders. The veins in his neck bulge. I hear his snorts. He coughs, clears his throat. I can tell he’s restraining himself. Waiting for the perfect moment. Trying to find the silence he always demands before he speaks. I’m tired of him getting what he wants, though.

“Are you okay, sir?” I ask. It’s no trouble at all to muster mock sincerity.

The Director roars. He spins and slams his fist onto his desk. The entire desk shakes, and the force feels like a gale wind slamming my back into the chair. His red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes brim with fury.

“Shut up. Shut your goddamn mouth.” Beads of spit fly from his swollen purple lips; a deep animal-like growl rises from his throat.

I clasp my hands as if this action will hold me together.

He wants so much to believe he is in control that losing his grip only enrages him more. That’s when he makes mistakes. It’s a risk to draw out his rage, but if he’s focused on me right now, he can’t focus on anything or anyone else.

The Director skirts around his desk and stands over me. He puts his hands on the chair and bends over me until his face is inches from mine. I recoil from the whiskey on his breath and the sweat dripping from his hairline. I start to gag.

He grabs my jaw between his rough, calloused fingers and squeezes. I twist my neck away, trying to free myself from his grasp, but he only grips harder. The pads of his fingers brand my skin with their force. I try to speak, yell out.

“Shut up,” he spits in my face. Then adds, “Does this hurt?”

I don’t move. I stop struggling. Don’t answer. Don’t give him the satisfaction. I may have almost no control, but I still have a choice.

“How about now?” The Director tightens his grip more, and a grin escapes his purple-red lips.

I dig my heels into the floor and wrap my hands around the Director’s forearms. I feel like he could tear my skin from my skull. He begins wrenching my face, like’s he’s trying to pull it off my neck.

“And now?” he bellows so loudly that I feel his voice inside my body. Tears stream down my cheeks. He pulls his hand back, balling it into a fist. I raise my hand to protect my face. His hand hovers in the air, suspended.

The door bangs open. It’s Fred. A small mercy. “Sir. Your visitors from High Command are passing through security, sir. They will be here shortly.” Fred steps completely into the room. “I can take the internee back to her cell, sir.”

The Director lets out a raw, brittle laugh. If there is a devil, this is what he sounds like.

“Lucky again, Miss Amin. Soon I will make that luck run out. Count on it.”

Fred takes my hand and gently helps me out of my seat, hurrying me out of the room. He shuts the door behind us.

We walk silently down the small, empty hall back to my holding room. Fred stops at a small closet and grabs a couple of ice packs. He opens the door to the cell and helps me to the cot. Once I’m seated, he breaks the capsules in the ice packs and shakes them, hands them to me. I hold them against each side of my jaw.

“It looks like you’re going to have some bruises. I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve intervened sooner. I—it’s so wrong, what’s happening here. Jake is right; we need to speed things up. He’s trying to.”

I look up at Fred. I’m so grateful he’s here. “Is Jake back? Where did he go?” I wonder what things he wants to speed up, but my body and mind feel like they might both collapse, and I can barely get any words out.

Fred shakes his head. “He’s attending to High Command. He’ll be back soon. I know he’s worried about you.”