Ch. 6 Questions Without Answers
By the end of the third week, Ziva had memorized her tormentor's routine. He'd come into the room which was her current residence, just before dawn. He'd smack her into wakefulness, yelling, screaming obscenities. Then badger her with ceaseless questions. If she refused to answer a question, she'd receive a smack to the head. If she responded with a sarcastic response, she'd receive a blow to her stomach or her ribs. There were times where she couldn't help but be sarcastic. She'd been released from the chair and so after twenty or so minutes, he left her writhing on the floor in pain. The cycle repeated itself all day long, her interrogator coming in at lunch time, then at dinner time and then an hour before midnight. Every other day they brought her water and bread at noon. To her surprise and disgust, the food was uncontaminated and a gun was held to her head to make sure she ate it. They'd meant what they'd said about her not dying quickly.
The only thing that changed about the routine was that the beatings got steadily worse. Ziva realized this for the first time on the seventh day of her capture. Her interrogator came in at noon, just as always, but this time he was not asking questions. He simply walked up to Ziva and lit a cigarette. Then after a long drag, he'd reached down and broke Ziva's small finger on her left hand, eliciting the first true cry of pain Ziva had uttered in a week. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to look at him.
"So you can keep track of how many weeks you've been here." he let her fall to the ground and left the room. To date, Ziva had three broken fingers on her left hand. In addition to just hitting her, her interrogator began to make cuts on her skin with a sharp knife and on occasion used the little bit of her knee exposed through her ripped combats to snuff out his cigarette.
Three weeks, thought Ziva, her back leaning against the wall of her prison. Three weeks I have been in this hell hole, and still I do not know what it is going on. Why has no one come for me? Hadar should have already reported my disappearance. And why do they care about my knowledge of NCIS? If they know I worked there, then they know that I have never come across any information valuable to terrorists. If anything, they should be questioning me about Mossad. Just then the door opened. Ziva mentally kicked herself, she'd lost track of time. It was now evening.
"David, when will you start cooperating?" he asked striding up to her. He was impatient today. He looked preoccupied, upset about something.
"Has hell frozen over?" a kick to the stomach. Ziva doubled over, her mind focusing on not crying out.
"Tell me about Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. He killed your brother, no? Ari Haswari." Ziva didn't answer.
He crouched down next to her and yanked her forward by the collar of her already tattered shirt. His face became ugly, menacing.
"If they hadn't ordered me to keep you alive, you would be dead by now." he shoved her back against the wall and left the room.
Great, thought Ziva. Another mystery. Who wants me kept alive enough to talk, but hurt enough not to fight back? And truly, Ziva felt totally unable to fight back, at least physically. Tony would be proud. For some reason the thought of Tony being proud of her gave feel hope. It was small, but it was there.
A/N: I don't know how happy I am with the way this chapter turned out. I think it's needed for the plot, but I dunno, it felt like I was writing a filler. Anyway, Let me know what you think. I will probably update again tomorrow, Sunday at the latest.
Have a great day!