Page 56 of Talk to Me

This one was permanent light.

Keep the prisoner off-center by creating an inhospitable environment. I’d tried keeping track of days by the meals. The inconsistent schedules, the long sessions of torture followed by my own collapses, had made time so insubstantial it just slipped through my fingers.

I sagged against the bed. Deep breaths were hard, particularly with how sore my ribs were. The chances they weren’t cracked had long since disintegrated to zero. I probably wouldn’t notice, except laying flat made it feel even worse.

Hard or not, I needed to work on regular, deep breaths. Maybe if I rolled onto my injured side. That was what they told me back in high school when I cracked two ribs in a car accident.

Seatbelt saved my life, and hurt like a bitch.

Man what I wouldn’t give to trade that for now. That had nothing on this. With a groan I couldn’t quite suppress, I rolled toward my left side. Since everything was injured, there was no one side that was better than another. I just went with the side that put more of my injuries higher than my heart.

Could help with inflammation.

Maybe the stone had too.

It also angled me toward the bars, where I could observe from beneath the shelter of my arm.

My neighbor had yet to return.

Interesting.

A niggle of guilt crawled out of the debris left by the interrogations and the torture. What if she was a victim in all of this too?

Was it possible?

Yes.

A certainty?

Absolutely not.

Could I afford to risk my freedom on the idea of rescuing her?

No.

I wasn’t even sure I could rescue me. If I got out, I could possibly contact help to get her out. I had—connections. Maybe not friends, but I had connections and those I could ask for assistance from. But to get that assistance, I needed to be out of here.

I hadn’t spent the last few years all alone, isolating myself, only to die in a cell.

I might die on my way out. They could kill me. The escape itself could kill me. Risk I was ready to take. At least the dead told no tales and I wouldn’t be able to answer the questions they kept asking.

Laying there, I allowed myself to doze again. Real sleep was impossible. I could pass out. Pain had taken me out a few times. But going to real sleep while I was already vulnerable?

Not an option I was willing to explore. Dozing, however, let me rest and track who came and went. One guard appeared with what looked like it could be a meal. Maybe. In some rustic, far away, fantasy land where they served bread and water.

Wasn’t that against the rules of the Geneva Convention?

He didn’t say anything or offer me anything, just slid the tray in and left. As dry as my mouth was, I didn’t move. On the handful of occasions they’d fed me, that seemed to be a midday meal.

After another interval where I’d lost count of how many seconds because I dozed again. The guard returned. He had another tray with him. I couldn’t see the food, but I could smell it.

Meat. Maybe.

I didn’t care. He stared at the tray on the floor then over at me before he left without a word. Each time he came and left via different doors, but he used the same code. At least as far as I could see.

This time, I didn’t go back to sleep. I started to count the seconds again. Until seconds turned into minutes, and those minutes morphed slowly into an hour.

At the hour mark, I eased my way off the cot. I could have gotten to my feet, but I crawled over to the food and the water. The trembling in my limbs required no effort on my part. Gripping the water, I lifted it to smell. It smelled clean.