"You never showed a sliver of interest in the conversation, sir, not even when I begged you to tell me," I fire back and automatically punish myself for mouthing out— that wasn't very smart. I shrug in my place waiting for one of his usual reprimands, but nothing happens.
"I would have told you if you had used the right words," he raises his right brow, and I think I even see a smirk.
"Why am I here, sir?" I straighten my back trying to mirror his posture. He doesn't miss a single move. He looks at me, starting on my breasts, jumping to my hands and then back at my eyes.
He has unusual eyes, both in color and size; something you don't see every day, not even in movies.
"You were abducted by a terrorist cell," he lets out and then shuts up, waiting for a reaction from me, which I try to suppress, and look indifferent.
"Why?"
"It was a random event; you were as they say 'in the wrong place at the wrong time.'"
I don't believe a word he says. Not because I think I'm special, but because he has a weird look on his face. There's something he's not telling. Something's missing here, something hidden between the words, which I can't figure out.
"The explosion, was that a terrorist attack?" I'm clearly confused. Never, ever in all this time I would have thought this was just an attack and now I feel like a moron because it was crystal clear. He just nods slowly. "And what are you trying to accomplish with me here?" Aside from torturing me for fun. "What's the end game?" I'm raising my voice. I struggle to keep my feelings in check, I don't want him to know he's affecting me. I don't want to give him that kind of power. However, I find it strange— I was clearly out of place with both my comment and my tone, and yet he's still there, sitting, quiet, calm, just like it never happened.
"To show the world what they're capable of." He exhales the words as if he was holding his breath. "Every time you were worked on, you were also filmed and broadcasted live for the world to share your pain." His upper lip twerks upward, showing something I haven't seen in him before— disgust. Maybe he did not approve? But why?
The very few patches of skin that aren't full of scars from excessive whipping react to the jolt of adrenaline that was just released within my body.
Why is he so burdened?
I like thinking he's not okay with this, but it only lasts a few moments. Because then I realize I'm in the hands of a deranged fundamentalist lunatic and a fanatic of some ancient distorted religion brought to the 21st century that must show the world they have a big, throbbing, holy dick. Classic.
Then out of nowhere, something flashes before my eyes— my parents, a vivid memory of them. I wonder if they saw me being 'worked on.' What a horrible thought. I can't even begin to imagine their pain, feelings and thoughts, the sense of impotence and hopelessness they must have experienced. Are they even alive? How long has it been? That's right, ask him that!
"How long have I been locked up?" I ask calmly. What sort of feeling should I experience? I've lost my ability to show emotions naturally, I've learned to contain the need to scream or show fear. And now, after faking so much for so long, I can't express myself as I should without even considering that my body doesn't work the way it used to. The void is growing by the minute and I literally feel it both in my chest and mind; it's something I've never felt before. This void has no sounds, but I can feel vibrations in my body that feel like an empty space, nothingness. It's not hot or cold, happy or sad; it just is.
"Three years."
My heart stops —or at least I think it does—; another dose of adrenaline fills my body.
Three years? How old am I?
Twenty-eight.
I guess when you don't get to see the sun every day and lose track of time, the very meaning of it becomes abstract.
Damn! Even after I've made my peace with not knowing for how long I've been here, right now, knowing makes me feel like shit!
There's something that's not right…
"What changed?" I ask.
Making a facial expression I can't recognize, he replies with a question: "What do you mean?"
"Why are you talking to me now, sir, after all, we've—" I want to say, 'been through,' but I can't because it sounds positive and good, and it really wasn't. "What happened to you that made you want to tell me all this?" There's a twitch in his eye, barely visible, but it's there. He drives his palm from the front to the back of his head. I don't think he expected that question, and in any case, he probably pictured my reaction to be abrupt, harsh, that I would even try to punch him.
Is this a new technique?
Maybe he thought he could work on me after my reaction, but here we are, sitting and facing each other, chatting away like Starbucks buddies. He's still thinking what to answer, his eyes are no longer steady; instead, they are all over the place.
He's uneasy, nervous even.
For the first time, I feel in some kind of control.
"Things are about to change around here, and I had… the need… to, erm… somewhat explain why you're going through this. They need you to deny… certain accusations made against them in the past years… about them being weak and…"
