Internment(79)

“You think you can win this? You think you can beat me? I could give you your martyrdom. I could burn you at the stake in the middle of the desert with the cameras watching, and in two days you’d be old news. And everything would be exactly as it is now. And your death would mean as much as any other death—sound and fury signifying nothing.”

The Director stops in the middle of the room and spins his head around. My silence weighs on him. I see it in his face, his fury rising every time he looks into my eyes.

“And now what? Can’t find the inspiration to speak?”

I take a shaky breath. “What do you want me to say?”

“Beg for your life.” The Director strides toward my cot, towering over me.

Beg for my life.

Beg.

Accept tyranny.

Bow to a false god.

“No,” I whisper.

I know what’s coming next. I twist my head away, but I’m too late. He slaps my face, and his clunky gold signet ring splits my lip, and blood pours down my chin. I scream, and it echoes off the walls. I wipe the blood from my face and hear my screams bounce back to my ears.

You’re not alone.

Be strong.

Live.

Fight.

The Director grabs my arm and yanks me from the bed, hurling me to the floor. My elbow slams against the hard surface. A scream rips through my body.

The door to my cell opens. Jake walks in, eyes wide. A wave of horror passes over his face when he sees me on the floor. He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, then turns squarely to the Director and says, “You need to leave now.”

“Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

“Corporal Jake Reynolds. National Guard of the United States. And you are out of order. I suggest you step aside.” He unholsters his weapon and steps between the Director and me.

I am bleeding and sobbing and near hyperventilating, and I have never been so thankful to see another human in my life.

“I can have you court-martialed for this, Corporal. She is a prisoner, and in this facility, I am the law.”

“This is still the United States of America, and no one is above the law. The mistreatment of prisoners is a crime under both international law and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And you are in gross violation of both.” Jake’s voice is deep and confident, but I can see a slight tremble in his fingers. When he speaks, he looks past the Director, not right in his face.

The Director smooths his hair and tucks in his shirt and laughs. But his laugh is nervous, with fear in it. He grasps the handle of the door.

Before walking out, he turns to me, eyes on fire, and says, “You’re the fucking Angel of Death.”





Too stunned and wrecked to move, I sit with my hands folded in my lap. Jake gingerly puts his arm around me and helps me back to the bed. Then he steps away, talking on a radio. I can hear the words, but they sound jumbled to my ears, incoherent. I’m holding an ice pack to my bruised face. I can’t stop shivering. I lick my split lip—salt and blood and tears.

Jake walks back over, grabs the blanket, and puts it around my shoulders. “You’re in shock,” he says gently. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come back sooner. I should never have left you.”

I look up at him. “Jake,” I whisper. But no more words come out. My voice is a dry scratch. I take a sip of water from a bottle that Jake hands me. The coolness of the water feels good against my raw throat.

“He’ll pay for what he’s done. I swear to you. I will make him pay. It’s over for him.”

I nod, but it’s barely a consolation.

For the second time, the door flies open, and Fred rushes in, stopping short when he sees me. “Layla. Shit.” Then he looks at Jake and says, “We should have stopped him.”

“I know,” he says. “I’ll never forgive myself. Fuck orders. I should’ve kept you safe, Layla.” Jake puts his arm around me.

I’m confused, in a maelstrom. The world is spinning and I can’t see or understand anything.

Jake holds me. I cling to him. I’m not sure for how long. Minutes or hours. Day or night.


Apparently, Fred left to get a doctor. I didn’t even notice he’d gone. He returns with a woman I’ve never seen. She’s dressed in uniform like the other guards, but she’s older. Flecks of gray salt the dark brown bob that curves around her heart-shaped face. She carries a leather satchel. She kneels in front of me.

Her voice is soft and gentle. “My name is Dr. Han. I’m a soldier, like Corporal Reynolds, and a medical doctor. I’d like to take a look at your lip and cheek, if that’s okay with you.”

I nod, and Dr. Han opens her bag and reaches for a pair of latex gloves. She takes out a small light that she asks Jake to hold above my face. Then she lightly sponges away the dried blood. She runs her fingers over the bruise on my cheek and turns my chin toward the light. I wince. It hurts like hell.

“You have some pretty deep bruises. But nothing broken. That lip is going to hurt for a while, but it’s already stopped bleeding.” She points her pinkie toward my mouth, tracing an outline of my lips in the air. “We can skip stitches. You’ll need to keep it clean. For now I want you to go back to your trailer and rest and keep ice on that face and lip to try to bring down the swelling. I’ll give you some meds for the pain.”