Abandoned: A Thriller (45 page)

I’ve had no further experiences in the punishment room. I long to defy him, but I can’t chance it. I have a baby growing inside me, and it, along with the light behind my eyes, has become my lifeline.

Three weeks have passed. Three weeks of darkness and ennui.
There are no books, no TV, no radio. There is nothing to do but think, and eat, and exercise, and walk from one end of the cell to the other, and use the toilet, and sleep. Once I started to masturbate, simply to relieve the crushing boredom, but then I remembered that he might be watching on a camera, and I stopped myself.

Once a week, as promised, he visits to make me brush and floss my teeth. It’s always the same. The lights go on without warning, blinding me. The door opens and he shocks me with the stun gun. Then he blindfolds me. When I’m able to stand again, he guides me to the pail of water he’s brought with him. He hands me dental floss and I floss my teeth. He gives me a toothbrush, with toothpaste already applied, and I brush and rinse. He shocks me again, turns me face over as I spasm, removes my blindfold, and exits the cell, returning me to solitude and darkness.

The first time, he talked. He said:
Excellent, number 35.
That’s what he calls me. Number 35. I file it away into the numbness I’ve become.

The last two times, he said nothing at all. I sat on the floor while he waited for me to finish. His patience is becoming the thing I hate the most. It is indifference, and in this place, indifference is a poison all its own.

It’s only been three weeks, and I already feel myself wanting to break down. I want him to say something to me. I hate him, but I long for him to speak, or to yell, or to hit me. Anything that involves interaction with another human being, however twisted.

Is this the same loneliness that keeps battered women with their abusive spouses? Is that what it’s like for those women? A stony solitude of hushes, where the silence and the lack become a living pain? If it is, I’ll never judge them again, at least not in the same way.

I long for anything to acknowledge my existence. It doesn’t even have to be human. I saw a movie once in which a prisoner of war made friends with a rat. I was repulsed at the time. Now I wish for my own rat.

The darkness and the silence and the solitude grind on that least protected thing: the soul.

That’s right
, I said to myself, just the other day (day? Or night?).
The soul.

I’m done wondering. Once you turn out all the lights and the body
disappears from sight and you are left alone, what is it that remains? The sense of self, the
me
, the
am that I am.

If that’s not the soul, what is?
I don’t care to hear the answer.

Madness in this place and places like it, I think, comes from too much thought. Thought is all you have. It’s the one thing you can do that can’t be taken away. The problem is, once you start thinking, it can be hard to stop. Like getting a tune stuck in your head, your mind can get rolling, grooving, heading down the highway, and you can watch as the sun rises and sets and the trees go by but find, when the sun sets, that the brakes have failed. You don’t coast to a stop, you writhe on your cot instead and curse, or rage, or weep.

I worried in the beginning about Leo and Alan. As time moved on, and my sense of time became a floating thing, I found less and less desire to consider either.

Just three weeks, and it’s already a hell on earth I could never have imagined.

I hold on to my sanity with tricks taught to me by Barnaby Wallace. His seminar, as it turns out, was a hell of a good investment.

Fear comes from too little certainty or too much. Torture is about denying one or the other, or both. The torturer takes away your certainty through different methods. Sleep deprivation. Sensory deprivation. No clocks or windows so you can’t track the time. He gives you too much certainty by promising to give you a good shot of pain and then delivering on that promise. So how do you conquer that fear?
He stopped then, a hand going absently to a scar on the side of his neck.
First thing you need to know about torture: Everyone breaks eventually. There’s no foolproof method, not for anyone on this earth. Give a dedicated man enough time, and he’ll crack the bravest down the middle. Period. What I can teach you is how to delay that breaking point. How to put it off in the distance. Will it work for you?
He shrugged.
Everybody’s different.

One of the methods he talked about had to do with a kind of self-hypnosis. Creating a
world behind your eyes
, he called it. He showed us a video of a Japanese man deep in meditation. Various people try to distract him, first by screaming into his ears and then, later, by smacking him in the back with boards and rods. He remains serene throughout, a half smile on his face, even when they once draw blood.

That’s an extreme example
, Wallace admitted.
This is a guy who’s
been sitting in the lotus position since he was four years old. But the principle is the same. It’s workable.
He’d smiled a thin, crooked smile.
We like workable.

I’ve turned Barnaby’s lessons into a small salvation, and it is keeping me tethered to myself, in the dark.

Everything is black when I close my eyes, as now, but once they are closed, the light goes on, or the sun comes up, or the moon rises.

Right now I am in a meadow at noon. The meadow is full of flowers. They stand as tall and thick as wheat in a field and are a rich riot of rainbow colors. They are vivid and vibrant and beautiful. In the center of the meadow is a large circle of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Birdsong and wind are the dominant sounds, both low and perfect. I am overwhelmed with images that contain beauty but no sense: a silo filled with sawdust, rich in smells; apples with sugar sores; fresh cut wheat, spring’s rebellion.

I sit on the grass in the meadow and I talk to my unborn child. It is neither he nor she, it is a small blur of roughly human-shaped light. I speak to it aloud, but it talks to me with its mind.

“What do I do when he knows about you?” I ask, and then laugh at my own poetry. “Time, time, to make up a rhyme. But seriously, baby, what do I do?”

You wait, Mother. And you hope. If you want to, you can pray, but only if you want to. The faith you need here is in you and me. God needs no faith to survive. He is here now beside you, regardless of your regard.

Baby is very theological, which I find somehow both comforting and annoying.

“God, here? Give me a break.”
He is here.

“Reaaaaally. What kind of God are we talking about? The serious-looking dude with the big white beard? The Indian-type God with eight arms and a mysterious knowing smile? Or should we go animal? A white buffalo in the distance, maybe?”

God doesn’t have to be an embodiment, Mother. God can be an activity. God is loving a husband, raising a child. God is reading a good book or saving a life. God is pride in a job well done and forgiveness given when it’s deserved. You don’t have to prostrate yourself, or burn incense, or live in fear of a lightning strike. You just have to live and
love and do your best in both. That’s God, and that’s heaven, and it’s not something we have to wait until we die to find. It’s here, now, in all of us.

Baby is wise, of course, as all disembodied children of light tend to be. The words ring in the meadow air, even though they were only thought, not spoken. They are dulcet, birdsong, pure.

I take in a deep breath through my nose, smelling the flowers. I turn my head toward the sky so the always-high-noon sun can beat down on my face unencumbered, and I taste the sun-sugar on my lips. I close my eyes behind my eyes, but here there is no darkness, only light.

“Jury’s still out, baby, but I have to say, I like that version of heaven better. You know the problem I always have with the heaven concept? The people who believe in it have no vested interest in leaving behind a better world. You know what I mean? I don’t buy into the whole reincarnation thing either, but at least it tells you, hey, you’re coming back to this world, so it’s in your interest to leave it in better shape than you found it.”

Baby glows brighter, then softer.

Belief isn’t important, Mother. What you do right now is who you are.

I smell the jasmine and I laugh. It doesn’t belong in this beautiful place, that laugh. It has too much despair in it.

“So what does that make me? I escape in my head to a place that does not exist but is more real to me than reality, and I speak to a glowing baby/theologian that’s actually just a collection of cells in my tummy. I guess that makes me nuts, huh?”

It’s keeping you sane, not making you crazy.

I consider this possibility.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall jolts me away from the light. My eyes fly open and I am in the blackness again.

No, no, no, keep your eyes closed this time! That was the plan!

Create victories
, Barnaby Wallace had told us.
It doesn’t matter if they’re small. It only matters that you can feel them. Torture, imprisonment, these are about taking things away. Find things to keep. Might be exercise. Might be small bits of disobedience. As long as you feel like you’re doing something to prepare for the eventuality of escape, you’ll probably stay sane.

The footsteps approach and I squinch my eyes shut, as tightly as I
can. The footsteps stop and the lights come on. Even through my eyelids, it’s almost blinding. I hear the sounds of the locks being disengaged. I open my eyes a little. The light comes in, but I am not blind.
Good! Good!

I keep my eyes open now but feign the usual disorientation and blindness. The door opens and I look while trying to appear as if I’m seeing nothing. I see Dali for the first time. I am both elated and disappointed.

He’s a small man, dressed in a baggy jacket over a T-shirt, loose blue jeans leading down to hiking boots. He’s wearing a ski mask over his head, which hides his features. He approaches me with the stun gun, and I scan for any other distinguishing marks as I pretend to be blind. I see one thing just before the gun contacts the side of my neck. It’s subtle, and I am uncertain. I have no time to process it fully before my body begins to spasm, and I go down.

He shocks me again, twice. Grayness soaks my vision and I really am blind.

A moment later, the prick of a needle and a white light explodes inside my head like a bomb blast. I fall into it.

I wake up as before, facedown, shackled, bound. I shiver against my will at the thought of getting whipped again. I wonder frantically what I could have done to deserve punishment?

Watch that “deserve,” Barrett. That’s prisoner-think. That’s victim-think. You don’t deserve anything that’s happening here.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here, number 35,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring you here because of any infraction. You’ve been a model unit.”

Unit. Number 35. Just storing meat.

“You’re here because I’m going to be asking you to make a choice. I’m going to ask you to decide whom I cripple and release: you, or number 36.”

“Who is number 36?”

“The other young agent I brought here after you.”

My heart lurches. Leo?

“Cripple and release? I don’t understand.”

“You’ve seen what I’m talking about. Dana Hollister is an example.”

Now it’s my stomach that responds. It rolls dangerously.

“I don’t want to make that decision.” My mouth is full of phlegm and bile. I force myself to swallow it all down.

“If you don’t decide, then you are the decision.”

A moment of blackness, almost like unconsciousness, passes over me. The world’s full of cotton.

“Why?”

“They’re continuing to hunt me. I need to send another message.”

“It won’t work. They won’t listen, don’t you see? There’s no reason for you to do this if it won’t make a difference.”

“It’s going to happen. The question: Who is it going to be?”

“Why do I get to be the one who decides?”

“I flipped a coin. You won the toss.”

I can’t speak for a moment. My face wants to twist into a sob. I fight it back.

“Why—why am I here, in this room?”

“I’m going to bring him in, and then I will leave you two alone for five minutes. You can tell him about the choice you have to make or not. I’ll leave that up to you. You are not allowed to discuss the subject of escape. When the five minutes are up, I’ll come back. I’ll return him to his room, and then I’ll ask you for your decision. The procedure will be performed an hour later.”

I feel cornered, panicked. I’m having trouble getting a full breath.

Five minutes? An hour later?

Worst of all:
the procedure.
Dark and clinical, an unconcerned word meant to stand for the loss of awareness of self. A scalpel word, bright and gleaming, metal fashioned from a nightmare.

“Why are you giving us the time together?”

This is the one weapon left to me, whether I get to put it to use later or not: my ability to understand him. Why is Dali Dali? Is there something giggling and drooly hidden under a mask of money and practicality? Or is it a simpler mantra:
I kill, therefore I am?

“Because I’m not a cruel man, number 35.”

It’s always the cruel who feel the need to prove otherwise. I file the answer away. Depersonalization is essential for him. That’s useful.
Or maybe it’s just a thought that will die in the darkness with you.

“Enough questions. Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. I’ll bring him in shortly. He’ll remain facedown on the table. I’ll remove his blindfold so he can see you. I’ll move you over to stand next to his table. Your feet will be shackled, and your wrists will be cuffed to his table. Do you understand?”

Time, time, I need more time. I have none.

“Yes, I understand.”

He acknowledges me by leaving without another word. Gone to blind and stun and drug Leo. What am I going to do?