It's her on my mind when they're holding my head under water, making me suck cold, acrid water into my lungs. I remember our kisses when they've got me on the table underneath a blinding, hot lamp, punching me in the face over and over and over.
It's her I feel when they give me the shock treatment, when my heart's racing a thousand miles per hour, ready to explode because the fuckers shoot me up with too much of that truth serum that never works.#p#分页标题#e#
She's my sanctuary. My love. My life.
She's the reason I'm going to survive this. I'll come home alive and breathing, instead of ground up ash in a tiny metal canister Uncle Sam will get in fifty years, after this sick regime collapses.
Delia, Delia, sweet fucking Delia. Forgive me.
I'm the one getting brutalized, but I can't stop thinking about her. Knowing she's in pain, worrying about me, is a thousand times worse than anything these motherfuckers can do to me.
The Korean smiles – it's the same faceless, plaster smile he always gives me. The same thing I've seen before he tells his goons to take pliers to my toenails, before he has them push me into that rotten pit full of rats and lice, before I spit in his miserable face when he's leering over me, wondering if I'm finally broken and ready to talk.
The man I call Kim paces the small cell while the stone-faced guards look on. He spins around when he's behind me, putting his face next to mine, so fast and sudden any other man would flinch.
I never do. He doesn't scare me, and it pisses him off. Our dealings are about more than about pulling information from an 'imperialist enemy of the state.'
It's become a war of egos, a war between men. He can't stand the fact that I'll never let him dominate.
“A dog until the end,” he snaps, motioning to the guards. “Get him on the plane.”
I wonder what vicious torture 'plane' is code for. I force the bastards to lift me off the bench and drag me outside my cell before I let my own two feet do some of the work.
They've made my life hell. I'm not making anything easy.
Soon, we're out the big steel door, the first time I've been outside since I got here. The wind is crisp, cool, savage like a North Korean winter should be. I don't see any snow, but maybe it's just a thaw.
I wonder if I've already missed Christmas. The thought makes me want to introduce these sick sonsofbitches to my face more than ever. I don't give a shit about repaying them for the torment – not that it wouldn't feel good to.
What really sends me into a blind rage is thinking about all the time they've stolen off my life, all the moments I would've had with Delia.
“Up! Up!” One guard bangs the door to a rickety military transport truck, and two more guards inside jerk me up. They sling me around and throw me on the ground, holding me down, next to the only other person I recognize who survived the chopper crash.
Commander Jones is inside, looking like he's lost fifty pounds. Fuck.
They've been starving me too, but nothing like my C.O. The raging, confident officer I knew on all my missions is gone. Some survival mechanism I don't understand has pulled him under, leaving me staring at this shattered robot, this man who only slurs his speech in faint whispers when they force him to.
I've overheard his interrogations. The walls are surprisingly thin and prone to echo at the prison camp, and the vents carry too.
The only time he makes noise is when he screams. It's usually so precise I can tell exactly what they're doing to him several walls away.
He doesn't even acknowledge me. I pinch my eyes shut and turn my head away, wondering if they're finally done with us. Is this the beginning of the end?
They've already violated the Geneva Convention and all the articles of war several times over. What's one more by taking us out to some rural pit and putting a bullet through our skulls?
Delia comes and goes in my imagination, ghostly and angelic. If I'm about to die, if they're about to make me break all the promises I made about coming back, then I'm going to go into the blackness thinking about her, her, and nothing else.#p#分页标题#e#
I don't think about Evie or Bruce or even my fucked up mission. I don't think about the dozens of women I picked up over the years, the ones who begged me for the honor of riding my cock.
I remember that night with Delia in Vegas, right before we came home, the way I jerked her body against mine.
Feral, hungry, insatiable. If there's a god, and he isn't ready to collect on my karma debt, then he'll bring me home.
He'll give me one more taste of her beautiful, perfect fucking lips before I die. He'll let me have her pussy, hard and aggressive. I'll fuck her like I own her, because I do, anchored in everything I want like nothing else, and always will.
I visualize it so damned hard I swear I hear her whimper in my ears.