The driver pulls up next to the van, and the locks click open.Pushing open the door, I scramble out on all fours, scraping my palms on rough asphalt, but before I can get to my feet, a hard arm clamps around my waist and a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my screams.
I hear orders being barked out in Arabic as I’m carried to the van, kicking and struggling, and then I see a fist flying toward my face.
There’s an explosion of pain in my skull, and then there’s nothing else.
27
Julian
I driftin and out of consciousness, the periods of wakeful agony interspersed with short stretches of soothing darkness.I don’t know if it’s been hours, days, or weeks, but it feels like I’ve been here forever, at the mercy of Majid and the pain.
I haven’t slept.They don’t let me sleep.I gain respite only when my mind shuts down from the torment, and they have ways of bringing me back when I’m under for too long.
They waterboard me first.I find it funny, in a kind of perverse way.I wonder if they’re doing it because they know I’m part-American, or if they just think it’s an efficient method of breaking someone without inflicting severe damage.
They do it a few dozen times, pushing me to the brink of death and then bringing me back.It feels like I’m drowning over and over again, and my body fights for air with a desperation that seems out of place given the situation.It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they accidentally drowned me; my mind knows that, but my body struggles to live.Every second with that wet rag on my face feels like an eternity, the trickle of water somehow more terrifying than the sharpest blade.
They pause every once in a while and throw questions at me, promising to stop if only I would answer.And when my lungs feel like they’re bursting, I want to give in.I want to put an end to this—yet something inside me won’t let me.I refuse to give them the satisfaction of winning, of letting them kill me while knowing that they achieved what they wanted.
As my body strains for air, my father’s voice comes to me.
“Are you going to cry?Are you going to cry like your mama’s pretty boy or face me like a man?”
I’m four years old again, cowering in the corner as my father kicks me repeatedly in the ribs.I know the right answer to his question—I know I need to face him—but I’m scared.I’m so scared.I can feel the wetness on my face, and I know it will make him angry.I don’t mean to cry.I haven’t truly cried since I was a baby, but the pain in my ribs makes my eyes water.If my mother were here, she’d hold me and kiss me, but she doesn’t come near me when my father is in this kind of mood.She’s too afraid of him.
I hate my father.I hate him, and I want to be like him all at once.I don’t want to be scared.I want to be the one with the power, the one everyone’s afraid of.
Rolling up into a little ball, I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the betraying moisture off my face, and then I get to my feet, ignoring my fear and the ache in my bruised ribs.
“I’m not going to cry.”Swallowing the knot in my throat, I look up to meet my father’s angry gaze.“I’m never going to cry.”
Curses in Arabic.More wetness on my face.
My mind is violently wrenched back to the present as I convulse, gagging and sucking in air when the soaked rag is removed.My lungs expand greedily, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear Majid yelling at the man who almost killed me.
Well, fuck.Looks like this portion of the fun is over.
They start with the needles next.Long, thick needles that they drive under my toenails and fingernails.I’m able to bear this better, my mind divorcing itself from my tortured body and taking me back to the past.
I’m nine now.My father brought me to the city for negotiations with his suppliers.I’m sitting on the steps, guarding the entrance to the building, a gun tucked into my belt underneath my T-shirt.I know how to use this gun; I already killed two men with it.I threw up after the first one, earning myself a beating, but the second kill had been easier.I didn’t even flinch when I pulled the trigger.
A few teenage boys walk out onto the street.I recognize their tattoos; they’re part of a local gang.My father probably used them at some point to distribute his product, but right now they appear to be bored and at loose ends.
I watch as they meander up and down the street, kicking at some broken bottles and ribbing each other.A part of me envies their easy camaraderie.I don’t have a lot of friends, and the boys I occasionally play with all seem to be afraid of me.I don’t know if it’s because I’m the Señor’s son, or if they’ve heard things about me.I don’t usually mind their fear—I encourage it, in fact—but sometimes I wish I could just play like a regular kid.
These teenage boys haven’t heard about me, though.I can tell because when they spot me sitting there, they smirk and walk toward me, thinking they’ve found easy prey to bully.
“Hey,” one of them calls out.“What’s a little boy like you doing here?This is our neighborhood.You lost, kid?”
“No,” I say, replicating their smirks.“I’m about as lost as you… kid.”
The boy who spoke to me swells up with anger.“Why you little shit—” He starts toward me, and immediately freezes when I point my gun at him without blinking.
“Try it,” I invite him softly.“Come closer, why don’t you?”
The boys begin to back away.They’re not completely dumb; they see that I know how to handle the weapon.
My father and his men come out at that moment, and the boys scatter like a pack of rats.
