I look up, releasing him as I ball my fists and the truth pours from my mouth. “He was the only person in the world who made me feel sane. And seen. Because I wasn’t just gay in Iraq, Anders. I was gay in my father’s house. I was gay under the tutelage of the most psychotic war criminal since 9/11.”
“I’m so sorry, Omar, I—”
I grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “Shut up.Shut up.Who the fuck do you think held the knife, Anders?” I ask, nearly spitting the words. “Them? No. That’s not how lessons were taught in my father’s house. So shut the fuck up foroncein your goddamn life.”
Anders stands there, openmouthed and not moving. Barely breathing.
I step away from him, gripping my bowed head, letting loose a sound from the depths of my soul. Something between a wail and a scream that distills the pitch-perfect agony of being seen for the coward I am.
I dissolve into sobs, and strong arms immediately surround me, holding me up as I let go. I sag into his body, pushing my face into his neck. I squeeze him as tight as I can, tears falling. He doesn’t protest the death grip I’ve got on him; he just stands there. Solid. Protective.
I let the tears fall for…I don’t know how long.
I never told anyone what I did, not Rafi, not anyone. Even my therapist got an incomplete story.
Anders switches to a one-armed hold and strokes my hair and face, swaying me ever so slightly from side to side. The tears finally stop on a long, shuddering breath. It’s several more minutes before he breaks the silence.
“Let’s get you into bed,” he says, his voice gentle.
He grabs my pajama bottoms and hands them to me, letting me avoid eye contact without commentary. I hold on to him for balance as I remove my shoes, socks, and jeans. I step into the pajama bottoms, and he helps me take my shirt off, folding everything neatly.
Confronted with the wide expanse of the bed, I turn my body to his again, and his arms automatically encircle me as though they’ve done it my whole life.
Wordlessly, he pushes the decorative pillows to the floor, then switches off the lamp as he helps me to slip between the crisp, clean-smelling sheets. He quickly readies himself for bed and, looking at me, gets in on the other side.
He kisses my temple as a few more tears slip down my face. It’s a weird, incredibly sweet gesture that cracks me wide open.
He shifts to his side of the bed, and I quickly drift off, wrung out and unable to keep my eyes open a second longer.
* * *
I can never tell if these are dreams or memories; I’m unable to stop them either way.
I’ve been dragged into my father’s workshop in the middle of the night, and I’m drenched in sweat, wearing my old pajamas and a pair of worn-out flip-flops, the grit from the dirt floor working its way between my toes.
I’ve begged for mercy, but mercy doesn’t live here.
My hands tremble as I pick up the blade, and my father backhands me for my reticence. The general stands in a corner with a snarl on his lips, disappointed in his pupil’s lack of a killer instinct.
I find my teacher’s eyes, and they are kind. He gives me a wink and a slow smile, knowing as I do that his life is forfeit.
“Make it a clean cut, y’hear?” he says, his blue eyes flashing as he drawls out his last words.
His blood smells of copper and earth, and I’ll never forget the sound of his head hitting the floor.
The blackness is broken when a soft yellow light filters through my closed eyelids. In the half sleep, I register wetness on my face but cannot move for several long seconds. My therapist calls it sleep paralysis. It’s all I can do to stem the tide of panic that threatens to wash over me.
As I will for my muscles to unlock, there is movement beside me, and strong arms encircle me. My body finally cooperates, and I violently pull away from the binding presence, hitting a solid chest as I strike out.
“Omar.”
I wake with a start, panting and sweating, confused by the gentle Texas accent, my eyes blinking against the lamplight.
“Omar. You’re safe. You’re in East Texas, in a cabin with an asshole.”
A small laugh escapes out of me, though I don’t know why I think it’s funny.
“Omar?”
