TRIGGER WARNING. While there aren't any graphic depictions/flashbacks of sexual assault/rape (and there won't be, as it absolutely isn't necessary), there are very blunt mentions in this chapter. There is also a single, brief mention of suicidal idealization, and a heaping ton of emotional manipulation toward the end.
This is why we have SERE, kids.
2. BEFORE AND AFTER.
The inside of the C-17 was too loud. The dull roar of the engine grated on Clay's frayed nerves, as did everything else; There was too much chatter. Too much miscellaneous noise. Someone, somewhere aboard, was snoring.
Clay yearned for the quiet. He feared it, too.
Bravo Team kept casting pitiful glances his way, as though he were a caged animal on its way to be euthanized. And, hell, maybe he was. . . Wounded. Feral. Dangerous. Is that what he was through the eyes of Bravo Team?
Clay certainly felt like an animal, some sort of old, hysterical world-wary predator. A coyote, perhaps. He was about fifteen seconds away from gnawing his own damn arm off. A small team of corpsman had him strapped to a gurney, and he struggled to shift so much as an inch. Clay knew, deep in his gut, that he wasn't escaping the C-17 with all of his limbs in tact. He wasn't going to see Pakistan again anytime soon, either.
It was ironic, Clay mused, that he could remember the name of the plane. The C-17. He'd forgotten so much else.
Clay thought of his life in terms of Before Karim and Mina, and After Karim and Mina. The memories from Before were dreamlike and nonlinear, distant and soft around the edges. . . Clay couldn't tell whether his memories were dreams, or if his dreams were memories, or if the connection that he felt to the burly, armor - clad men of Bravo Team was imagined or genuine.
More than anything, he wanted to go back to his little house in Pakistan with the blue doors and the tall fence. He wanted Karim and Mina.
Clay's memories of After were vivid and as clear as well water, as were the behaviors that were expected of him. Clay missed that sharp clarity; Now, trapped on a plane that he had no desire to be on with men and women he had no desire to speak to, it felt as though Clay were walking through a dream. . . or one of his memories. The C-17. The sailors of the United States Navy. Bravo Team. These were things and people from Before.
Clay didn't know what was expected of him on the C-17. Nor did he know the rules. Clay didn't dare breathe a word from his gurney, fearful that Jason may strike him if he missteps.
Master Chief Jason Hayes. He was the boss, the leader of Bravo Team. Clay remembered that much, at least. And even if he didn't, Jason's presence commanded the entire room—He was much bigger than Karim. Stronger. Fitter. Undoubtedly faster. He could do much more damage.
Keep an eye on that one, Clay thought to himself. Keep him happy, no matter what.
In the beginning of After, Clay had been beaten relentlessly. His ribs were broken so many times, for so many reasons, that he feared they'd eventually puncture one of his lungs. Or heal incorrectly, subsequently crippling him.
But the isolation that followed was far, far worse. And the relentless, gnawing hunger. Clay stayed locked in the darkness of Karim's basement for forty six days. Every two or three, Mina would feed him, and only enough to keep him alive. It didn't take Clay long to became ravenous—for food, for light, for socialization of any sort, for anything at all that wasn't silence and darkness and cold. Jesus fucking Christ, how many innocent men would he have killed to spend sixty seconds in a lukewarm shower? He smelled so badly that he made himself sick.
After the first two weeks without human contact, Clay began to hallucinate. It was Stella that he saw first, dressed in his favorite little white sundress. She smelt of warm vanilla sugar and her favorite Starbucks coffee order and Clay ached to see her smile just once more. He saw Brian, next, wearing the Navy dress-whites that he wore in his second wedding. Clay could hear him laughing still, the sound an epithet to the sun, and he could feel Brian's arm threaded through his own as he walked him down the isle.
And then Clay saw his father, Ash.
His father was quiet and devoid of warmth, just as he'd always been. He stood in front of Clay, glowing faintly in the darkness. He stared, and stared, and stared some more. He held the book that he wrote tight to his chest, tighter than he'd ever held Clay.
Clay screamed at him: I hate you! I hate you, you dirty, glory-hounding bastard! I was a child, and you threw me away like trash! I hate you!
Clay tried to punch him in the jaw. His fist collided with the concrete wall. He fractured two fingers.
But then, out of the blue, and for no reason that Clay could discern, Karim and his wife, Mina, began to feed him. They brought him out of the light-less, empty basement and showed him to his bedroom; a bright, warm, sunlight room upstairs with a real bed, and a real bookshelf lined with a plethora of books, and an expensive looking rug and two intricate lamps and—
Clay wept. He could see the sky through his open window. And he could hear birds. And cars. And people. He could feel the sun. He couldn't stop weeping.
The beatings stopped, too, in a sense. They'd transformed into something softer, though just as painful. A soft caress of the face, fingers laced through his hair, a soft kiss to the blade of his jaw. It'd been nauseating at first, the unwelcome touches, especially when those touches drifted lower and lower—but Clay grit his teeth and bore them as though they were punches, kicks, and whips.
It was easier to think of them like that, as opposed to anything else.
Clay couldn't go back to the beatings, to the broken ribs and fractured hand bones and aching, dislocated jaw, to the welts and cuts and hunger. He doubted that his mind could handle another month or so in isolation. If Karim tossed him back into the basement, he'd bash his head against the wall until it killed him—Perhaps Brian would walk him to Heaven the same way that Clay had walked him to the altar.
So, Clay bore it. He knew better than to fight. He peeled off his clothes and closed his eyes and lost himself in the memories of Before.
His friend. His best friend. The one with a strange accent that always made him laugh. What was his name?
Sonny. His name was Sonny.
Clay missed Sonny.
Clay wasn't sure what was worse; when Karim touched him, or Mina. Sonny wouldn't touch him. Sonny would've beat in the skull of anyone who tried to touch him. The first few nights, he'd wished Sonny were there to beat Karim's head in. And Mina's.
Sonny never came. No one did.
There was a woman from Before, a woman that Clay loved dearly, whose name he now couldn't remember. She'd recommended a book to him once when he mentioned that he liked to read whenever he caught a free minute. Clay couldn't remember the name of the book, but he remembered a single quote from within its pages: Detach yourself. Treat it as a job.
Clean the house? A job. Do the shopping? A job. Help chop the carrots, peel the potatoes, tend to the children? All jobs. Get fucked by some sweaty, overweight guy—or his wife? A Job.
Work. It was all just tedious, menial work. And in return for the work that he did, Clay had been granted overwhelming kindness; He began to eat with Karim and Mina at mealtime, and he ate the same as they did. He was allowed to leave the house so long as the chores were all done, and so long as he returned by dusk. Clay had made friends in town, and even grew to enjoy some of the household chores. Mop the floor, tidy the kitchen, mend the fence in the backyard. . . They were things to do, a physical way to fill the hours when he wasn't out.
In time, Clay began to realize that Karim and Mina weren't the worst people in the world. They were much kinder than the traffickers who took him. They could even be funny, sometimes.
As long as Clay did what was asked of him, and what was expected of him, they coexisted perfectly fine. The sex wasn't so bad, either, once he got used to it. It was just another tedious, menial job to be done. Another necessary evil. Detach yourself. Clay would stare up at the ceiling and try not to listen to the rhythmic squeak of the bed, and he'd let his thoughts drift to the weather, and to what he might buy for dinner tomorrow night, and whether or not he should start a new book or finish that one he's in the middle of first. Treat it as a job.
(He couldn't leave the house after dark, and though Karim and Mina were wealthy, they forbid television; At night, Clay read.)
Clay never thought that he'd miss them. His mind reeled. What did Jason Hayes and his men want? Why did they take him? Clay remembered Jason both hating him and accepting him as one of his own, a fellow brother. He remembered Jason attacking him, as well as ruffling his hair affectionately. Which was real?
Fuck. Clay's head throbbed in tandem with his gunshot wound. Which memories were real?
Sonny Quinn lingered a few feet away, looking troubled. Clay could see him in his peripheral vision, just to the left. He'd wandered off from the rest of Bravo Team, it seemed. A small part of Clay wanted to reach out and comfort him, though he wasn't sure why.
Sonny had been his friend once, right? From Before?
No. That couldn't be right. This man, this Sonny , tried to take him away from his family. Karim and Mina bought him, yes, but they took care of him. They loved him. If he followed the rules, he got to sleep in his own bed, in his own room. There was no more isolation, after the first month or so. And no more hunger. And the beatings had shrunk into two sharp hits whenever he misbehaved.
They were strict, yes, but they still loved him. Why would his friend want to take him away from his family? Clay never had a real family before. He'd never ate a table with people who loved him.
He missed Karim and Mina.
"Sonny?" Clay asked quietly.
He didn't particularly want to talk to him, but the bone deep fear of another stint in isolation drove him to speak.
Sonny was at his side immediately. The relief on his face, and the wetness in his red rimmed eyes, made Clay uneasy. He didn't trust Sonny. He couldn't.
"Yeah," Sonny said, dropping into the chair next to Clay's gurney. "I'm here, Goldilocks. You doin' okay? It's been a long flight, I know."
Hm. A loaded question. Clay didn't want to give Sonny any ammunition against him, nor did he want to leave the question hanging—It would be rude to do so, and Jason would probably punch him in the jaw for the disrespect.
"My shoulder hurts," He said. "Wanna' go home."
Sonny's mouth formed a tight line. He reached out to squeeze Clay's good shoulder, and Clay braced himself for the contact.
"You are home, Clay. Bravo's your home, okay? No matter how you're feelin', or what's bouncin' around in that thick noggin of yours, we're your family. And we're. . . real glad to have you back."
Clay grit his teeth and said nothing. Sonny was lying to him. He wished that Jason would hit him. Pain was grounding; Karim said that pain kept you in the present, and Mina said that there was no need for the past. Clay agreed. Live in the present. Stay grounded in it. Before was gone. Now, there was only After.
The next hour or so went by in a blur. The C-17 landed, and Clay was immediately taken to a hospital. A flurry of vaguely familiar faces greeted him, but he said very little. He had to conserve all the energy that he could, just in case. An opportunity to escape may present itself. . .
Upon arrival, Clay was told that he didn't need surgery (the bullet that pierced his shoulder was still in Pakistan, lodged in the ground), but still had to be admitted for treatment and further tests.
If someone were to ask, Clay would've told them that being shot by a sniper rifle hurt far less than being treated for the resulting gunshot wound.
"Do you have to?" Clay asked when a young, dark haired nurse informed him, gently, that she was going to cut his shirt off.
"Yeah," She said. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I've gotta clean that wound."
Clay nodded, used to the process of having his clothes removed, and quietly braced himself. The nurse, Carly, her name tag said, snipped the top of his shirt one, two, three times before he involuntarily twisted to the side and vomited on the floor. The pain wrought from agitating his wound caused him to vomit again.
On the other side of the bed, Jason and Sonny stood guard. Clay half-expected Sonny to be the one to rush forward, but it was Jason Hayes, instead.
Interesting.
"Hey, hey, it's okay, Spense'," Jason said.
He reached out to brush the sweat-damp hair from Clay's forehead. Clay flinched.
Jason had big hands, and Clay couldn't help but imagine them wrapped around his throat, or pinning him to the bed. The thoughts left him dizzy with fear. He wanted to scream.
His bad shoulder oozed blood.
"Don't touch him," Nurse Carly said sharply. "Please."
Jason removed his hand from Clay's forehead, and Clay sagged with relief.
Three other men stood outside his room. Clay could see them through the window. He recognized them, but their names were fuzzy. One had a dog, then one in the middle. . . His name was Ray, Clay could remember that much, and the tall one on the end, with the beard. . . Travis? Trent?
Trent sounded right. Familiar.
Clay wondered which one of them shot him. It couldn't have been Jason or Sonny, or the one with the dog, because they'd been in the alley with him right after he'd been shot.
So, Trent or Ray.
Clay made a decision. He was going to survive by any means necessary.
He looked at Jason Hayes and intentionally softened his gaze, played up his victimhood. Jason seemed as though he wanted to help, to offer comfort. He seemed desperate to. Clay could work with that. Quietly, he extended his arm toward Jason, offering a hand.
Clay forced his hand to tremble. He didn't cease the trembling until Jason took it.
Clay smiled at him around the taste of vomit, thanked him with big, wet blue eyes. Mina always said that he had the prettiest eyes.
Keep an eye on that one. Keep him happy, no matter what. . . No matter what.
"Mr. Spenser?" Carly asked, and holy shit, Spenser. That was his last name. How long has it been since he'd heard his last name? "I'm going to give you something to help you relax, okay? When you wake up, you'll be all stitched up."
Clay nodded and squeezed Jason's hand when Carly began to insert an IV into his other arm. Jason squeezed back.
As he began to drift off into a drug-induced slumber, Clay struggled to contain his grin.
Checkmate, Hayes.
If Master Chief Jason Hayes and his men saw Clay as a predator, then fine; Clay Spenser would give them a fucking predator.
