Chapter 4 - Tell Me It's A Nightmare

It's running through my veins

And it's everything I touch

Be careful when you love me

I'm only out for blood

You know I'd be the end of you

But you always wanted more

(Be careful what you wish for) - Kim Petras

I'm soaked and chilled but managed to pound all of the andrenine out of my veins. I really hadn't noticed the cold until I stopped but now I feel it to the bone. My legs hurt, each step is a stumble as I hobble back with blood running down one of my shins and a knee that is red and angry, equally battered and bloody.

I didn't see the curb. Running in a downpour will do that to you when your hair gets matted to your face and the water sluices down into your eyes. Or maybe it was the road and the pothole just before that I thought I'd out maneuvered? No matter, I hit the ground hard, skimming over the asphalt and concrete so that even the palms of my hands were raw. I should be thankful that I didn't crack my head wide open and lay there bleeding out in the middle of a storm. But, after checking that nothing was broken, all I could think of was death.

I rolled onto my back and let the rain drench me more, the tiny pin pricks hurt as they hit all of the fresh wounds on my body. When I closed my eyes I felt even more pain, the kind when you're in a terrible wreck, a roll over crash that had me and Clay pinned between the seats when Sadik's men attacked us. It began to rain then too, a sudden monsoon that I swore I would drown in.

There was dirt and glass, muddy water that had reached my face and was choking me. There was smoke too, so much smoke I expected the SUV would blow up before anyone pulled us from the wreckage.

His men yanked me out with any care over my "condition" and I faked pregnancy pains while being concerned over an unborn child none of which afforded me any special treatment.

I was still pushed around, shoved into the shack and continued to pretend I was the wife to some silly little diamond dealer. There was no one to care for the scratches on my body, the tiny ones that somehow hurt more than the bruises over my thigh.

Clay promised to keep them away, to protect me but once he was taken, I knew I'd be next. His screams still live in my mind especially in moments like this where nothing else occupies my thoughts. Christ, those guttural screams, pained and so unrenting because Sadik's men tortured him for hours.

Endless, ceaseless hours until they brought him back to me, a shell of the man he would never be.

I was next. I was next despite Webb's feeble attempt to keep them away. I was next.

That's when I realized Clay had been broken because few people knew my real name that Sadik had spoken before stabbing me. My hands come to my abdomen now flat with a wet shirt plastered across it. I felt Sadik running his knife through me, the padding did little to stop the emotional pain.

That was the most terrifying experience of my life. Not watching Joe repeatedly beat my mother. Not the waiting for Chris Rangle to take his own drunken stupor out on me. I've lived through war, the attack on the base in Bosnia where I finally became a real Marine with two or three kills to boor. They had come for me and the young corpsman who had tried to protect me and died for his efforts - I had to attack, I had to stop the insurgents.

And yet the fear I felt at Sadik's hands, the way he carelessly slammed a knife through the padding crushed all my Marine bravado. It took my breath away because I knew, I knew if the belly was real he would have ended us. He would have killed me and my unborn child just because.

I begged the men to let me off the table and even offered my body as payment because I was scared. Steel wool and car batteries, the combination was meant to be painful but not kill. The cycle of pain could be repeated over and over until the subject passed out or pissed themselves, maybe both.

I wouldn't break, I couldn't and as they tied me down, I knew I would die there. I had to because Sadik would come for us if we lived.

Eventually the cold had seeped far enough into me that I could no longer stand it. My internal clock that had been on the fritz since Paraguay offered me little direction as to how long I lay on the pavement. Sitting up was hell, walking was far worse so I half stumbmed, mostly shuffled back to the room.

I crack open the door as quietly as possible hoping my partner is sleeping. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want his disappointment or disgust, I don't want him at all. The room is dark, there's not a single sound but the click of the lock behind me and the woosh of a heavy breath coming from his bed.

Harm lays against the headboard illuminated by the neon lights outside the window. His hands are folded across his chest and a second later I hear him speak. "Where the hell have you been?"

He sounds like a parent reprimanding a small child and I snort at his pathetic tone. "I'm fine dad."

"It isn't funny, Mac! I've been worried sick!" Those words serves to anger me more especially when question after question gets fired off without a chance to respond "And, What do you want a cellphone for?

"How could you go out in...in that?" He motions to the window and I swear lightning crashes as on cue. "Are you insane?"

"Woah, woah. I'm fine, I'm a big girl, a Marine. I know how to handle myself." He flips a light on and I grimace when it's beam hurts my eyes. "Jeez, Harm my eyes! Turn that thing off!"

"Oh."

"Oh?" One word and it seems as if his soul has been ripped right out of him. His eyes focus on me, one particular spot that makes the color drain from his face. I turn to the mirror and see a reflection that is so unrecognizable it scares me.

This isn't me. It's not the woman I've stared back at for years. She's thinner, a little gaunt and the usually sun kissed olive tone of my skin looks pale and sickly. It doesn't help that my hair is matted to my face or that my make up has run so badly I have racoon eyes. Through the mirror I follow Harm's gaze and find the subject of his concern.

The t-shirt has a neckline that is much lower than others I own. Rain made it drape farther down exposing the curves of my neck, the tops of my shoulder and the marks across my throat - purple indentations from where his fingers had once threatened to squeeze the life out of me.