University of California Los Angeles, Henry, 2014
Father Stevenson must be forgetting that this is a Symposium, not a lecture. He's been droning on for an hour, not letting anyone else get a word in. About ten minutes ago I tried to remind him that every single person in this room has at the very least a Master's Degree in Catholic or Religious studies, we don't need the basics explained. I silently excuse myself to the bathroom, needing a reprieve from Father Boring. Jeez, I hope he isn't a parish priest, how awful Sunday Mass would be for his congregation.
It's in the hallway coming back from my little five minute walk that I see a ghost. I've seen her before, after she died. Always a fleeting image of her blonde hair walking away. I stare at this brunette ringer for her, waiting for her to disappear too. But she doesn't. She is texting someone, and I notice her scar. The faint one on her cheek, barely noticeable, but always there. I can't breathe. She's not a ghost.
"Oh my God." I must say that out loud, because her head snaps towards me, shock evident on her face. It takes a fraction of a second for her to turn and walk in the other direction.
*Iraq, Elizabeth, 2005
He comes in holding my picture again. It's his special little brand of psychological warfare. He wins every battle. I've given up on hiding the pain he's putting me through. I miss my kids. I want him to let me keep it. I feel my heart crack a little more every time he takes my picture of them away from me. There is a second set of footsteps coming up to the door today. He doesn't like to do the dirty work himself. I find it ironic that he can force me to have sex for food, but god forbid he has to do the waterboarding or the cigarette burns himself.
"Good Morning Elizabeth." He says as he opens the door for the second man. The second man is carrying a mattress.
"I got you a little anniversary gift." The word anniversary plays over and over in my mind. How long have I been here? It's been hard to keep track, but I think it's only been a week. Or maybe two?
"Happy one month, Elizabeth. You've earned this." A month? How has no one found me? When I was at Langley, an MIA agent was always located within 48 hours. We went always located them quickly, even if we couldn't get them out quickly. But it shouldn't be hard to do this rescue, I'm still in Iraq. I know that because I hear explosions most nights. Controlled shelling from the war effort. There should be a SpecOps team who can come and get me.
He bends down to where I'm sitting on the floor, and kisses me on the cheek. It's his signature move, and I flinch away every time. I'm starting to wonder what I'm doing here. This guy isn't a normal terrorist. In fact, I don't think he's a terrorist at all. I think he may just be a psychopath. He quit asking me questions about my job a while ago. What is really going on here?
University of California Los Angeles, Elizabeth, 2014
I have to get out of here. I need air. Fresh air. It's the only thing that will force my lungs to fill. I learned that in Landsthul. I was kept in a single room for too long, and being outside relieves the panic. Outside, Bess, just get outside. I speed up almost jogging. I push through the door and head to the nearest bench. I hold my head in my hands, bending forward slightly. Okay, five things I can feel. Um, the bench is hard, and the sun is warm. My hair is soft, and –
"Elizabeth." He sounds angry. He should sound angry. I deserve it, but I can't, I can't feel my hands now. I feel the numbness settling into my body, no way to fight it. I'm too far gone.
Landsthul Regional Medical Center, Elizabeth, 2006
George fell asleep. But I can't. I fear that when I wake up this will have been a dream. I fear waking up in that small room with no windows. Having only a mattress to my name. A mattress on which unspeakably terrible things happened on. I contemplate stealing George's phone to call Henry. I need to see him, or at least talk to him.
I reach over to the chair George is sleeping in with my good arm, but stop short of touching him. I'm scared to wake him, scared of the consequences. I wonder how long this will last, the conditioning done by my captor to never break a rule. Breaking rules has consequences, painful ones.
University of California Los Angeles, Henry, 2014
I gather myself quickly. I won't let her walk away from me. Not without a full confession of where she's been and what she's been doing for the last ten years, while I've mourned her and raised our children. I'm moving quickly after her, anger rising with every step. She's walking quickly down the halls expertly navigating this building. She must come here often. She pushes a little too forcefully out the door. Then almost falls onto the bench closest to her. She cradles her head in her hands.
"Elizabeth." I say her name forcefully, walking over to her. And then I notice that she's hyperventilating. I take a breath, trying to put my anger in check.
"Elizabeth?" I try again, this time hopefully softer. I hear her suck in a real breath, although she struggled to do so.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She's repeating it over and over again. She's sobbing now too. Awful, painful, heart wrenching sobs, that brings tears to my eyes. I don't know what to do. I follow my instincts, I was married to her for a long time. I know her inside and out. I sit next to her and place my hand on her shoulder. She startles away from my touch.
"Please don't." she whispers. What happened for us to get here?