Chapter 6: Privilege
*
Soft gray wool sweater, well-made black slacks, and sturdy leather shoes. I write in the notebook Oleg gave me. Factual reports of my physical training progress, studies of security systems that have come on the market since I was brought into their custody.
"Julia."
I close the book and push it to the side.
"Lunch."
He places the tray in front of me and lifts away to cover. A generous piece of chicken, peas, mashed potatoes and gravy. The corners of my mouth twist up in something that could be either a smile or a smirk. This is the meal they taunted me with for so long.
*
I have a new cell. There is a bathroom, and a dresser next to the bed, and a narrow wardrobe full of dark slacks and crisp shirts. The pillow on the bed is soft and clean. I have a lamp, and an overhead light controlled by a lightswitch just to the right of the door as I enter.
Two guards are posted outside the door, which locks only from the outside. But late at night if I get hungry, they will bring me yogurt or saltines from the kitchen.
A Josef Albers print hangs on the wall above the bed: concentric squares of blue, midnight, black in the center. It smolders darkly: infinitely structured but revealing nothing. I am that blackness wrapped inside myself. I am vengeance behind innocence, under the mask of a mercenary.
*
My arms are getting stronger. My endurance is returning, slowly. I spend hours with the trainer: lifting, running, sparring. He pulls his punches and slows his responses for me. He catches me by surprise, flips me easily. I take a lot of falls. Starvation burned away my fat, my former life, and muscle mass as well. I crave protein. I'm running full tilt to catch up to myself.
*
An animal will gnaw off its own limb to escape a snare. A human waits silently, plottingly, sullenly, for her captor to return, and then attacks.
*
I dream of fire so hot it burns blue, as light and as clear as the finest sapphire. An acetylene torch, in my hands. And to the flame I hold a picture of myself. Sometimes my hair is brown, and sometimes it is blond. I smile as it burns.
I lurch into consciousness, sweaty but cold.
*
*
Soft gray wool sweater, well-made black slacks, and sturdy leather shoes. I write in the notebook Oleg gave me. Factual reports of my physical training progress, studies of security systems that have come on the market since I was brought into their custody.
"Julia."
I close the book and push it to the side.
"Lunch."
He places the tray in front of me and lifts away to cover. A generous piece of chicken, peas, mashed potatoes and gravy. The corners of my mouth twist up in something that could be either a smile or a smirk. This is the meal they taunted me with for so long.
*
I have a new cell. There is a bathroom, and a dresser next to the bed, and a narrow wardrobe full of dark slacks and crisp shirts. The pillow on the bed is soft and clean. I have a lamp, and an overhead light controlled by a lightswitch just to the right of the door as I enter.
Two guards are posted outside the door, which locks only from the outside. But late at night if I get hungry, they will bring me yogurt or saltines from the kitchen.
A Josef Albers print hangs on the wall above the bed: concentric squares of blue, midnight, black in the center. It smolders darkly: infinitely structured but revealing nothing. I am that blackness wrapped inside myself. I am vengeance behind innocence, under the mask of a mercenary.
*
My arms are getting stronger. My endurance is returning, slowly. I spend hours with the trainer: lifting, running, sparring. He pulls his punches and slows his responses for me. He catches me by surprise, flips me easily. I take a lot of falls. Starvation burned away my fat, my former life, and muscle mass as well. I crave protein. I'm running full tilt to catch up to myself.
*
An animal will gnaw off its own limb to escape a snare. A human waits silently, plottingly, sullenly, for her captor to return, and then attacks.
*
I dream of fire so hot it burns blue, as light and as clear as the finest sapphire. An acetylene torch, in my hands. And to the flame I hold a picture of myself. Sometimes my hair is brown, and sometimes it is blond. I smile as it burns.
I lurch into consciousness, sweaty but cold.
*
