I look at him. I do not take my gaze off of him. I want to show him that I have dealt with worse, that I can deal with him. I can not hurt him, I know, for fear of losing more than I have already, but I try to make him see that I can. That I will.

Whatever I had hoped to convey is lost on my cellmate. He pulls me from the bed, throwing me on the ground. The cement floor bruises my right shoulder, but I look up at him. I believe this angers him more, the fact that I am showing no signs of fear, than the fact that I incapacitated his favorite guard. He lets out a primal shout of rage, and kicks my back, my front, my side. It hurts, but it is less than I have experienced before.

I wince slightly, and this fuels him. I close my eyes as he hits me with his close-fisted hand, harder and more powerfully than I would ever had thought possible for a man of his stature. I groan, so softly that it is almost not heard, but I feel the man hit me harder, and I know that he has heard. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to bring myself somewhere else.

I try to think of something completely different. Michelle. No. I can not have her associated with this incident; it would be almost sacrilegious. My body tenses in an effort to prevent further injury, and I tuck my head under my arms. CTU. I think of CTU, of some of the missions I lead tactical on there. I try to bring myself back into the field, back to the action, back with Jack, and Adam, and Chloe. Yes, even Chloe I would welcome gladly right now. I realize that I miss that place, that job, more than I would like to admit. Perhaps it is only because the alternative is a maximum-security prison, but I know, deep down, that I love the job. I loved the job. I suppose I will never go back there again.

CTU is a temporary reprieve from my situation, but I soon hear the man, feel pain again. He is swearing at me, yelling, kicking, anything he can possibly get a hold of is thrown against me. I try to pull myself away, but it is a useless attempt. I think of the Cubs. I try to remember the series that they have won, their leading scorer, but I am fighting a losing battle. The man, my cellmate, is real, and no matter how hard I try, I can not make him disappear. I can not make my predicament disappear.

I could have taken this guy. I could have made him hurt more than he'd ever hurt before. I was a Marine; I learned certain techniques that could reduce grown men to puddles on the floor. But it seems life is all about choices. I chose not to fight back. I chose this because, although I could take this guy, I could not take this guy plus twenty of his friends in this prison. If I let him do what he wants to me, maybe he will grow tired of it. Maybe he will stop. Also, if I had chosen to fight back, it could be taken the wrong way, considering my history here. I could lose more, but I chose not to.

I lay there, curled up, for a long time. I am sure that the seconds seem to drag on longer because of what is happening, but I am sane and conscious enough to know that it goes on a long time. At last, it stops. No more fresh pain. Briefly, I open my eyes, but I regret it immediately. The man unzips his pants, and he pisses on me. A final mark of complete humiliation. His closing move. The hot, wet liquid seeps into my wounds, stinging them and causing me to cry out in pain. The man laughs.

I hear him get up, climb into his bed. And I wait. I wait until his breathing becomes regular. I wait until I am sure that he is asleep. Then, I roll over and I vomit into the stainless-steel toilet, the blood in my mouth mixing with my bile. I choke, and roll back onto my back. After a moment, I bring myself to my feet. It is a difficult task, and I stumble and stagger at first, leaning heavily on the sink next to the toilet.

I close my eyes again, and determinedly shove my head under the cool tap, rubbing it furiously with the hard soap, trying to rid myself of my cellmate's urine. When I feel satisfied, I peel of my wet clothes, washing each of them in turn. I hide them under my bed, putting my spares on instead. I then let myself collapse onto my bed.

I quickly make the decision not to inform any guards about the confrontation, or to go to the prison medic. I am not well-liked among the guards, and the man has many allies. I will try to hide what has happened to me, and try to avoid the man sleeping above me. I am too tired and too sore to consider that my logic might be flawed; I will wait until tomorrow, I guess. I close my eyes, and fall into a fitful sleep.