Rolling over, I sit up and put my back against the wall. My head is in my hands and my eyes are shut tight. Ben, you let John down and got him killed. This thought repeats incessantly and I start banging the back of my head against the wall to make it stop!

As I sit crying in my cell, the tear distorted vision of the floor changes shape. I shut my eyes tightly but the light from the window makes my eye lids a backlit screen. Images begin to appear.

I see parts of my childhood, crazy times in high school, joining the Marine Corps, and life after the Corps. Someone dropped the carousel, and these were the only slides left to view. I do my best to linger on each one and when nothing new appears, I make every effort to review.

What do I know of my current location, who I am, and the facts about myself? What I can recall doesn’t add up to much. The slot in the door opens, interrupting my string of thoughts. The grating sound of the sliding metal tray shatters it. I take my time with the food, being mindful of texture, taste, and smell. I am hopeful that anything will spark a memory.

The key to my current issue is locked in my head. If I uncover my past, I can work the present, to influence the future. It seems an insurmountable task. Only fragments of memory return during traumatic events and the cost to benefit ratio is not optimistic.

An entire day passes with no interaction from my captors. At least they are feeding me twice a day. It’s enough to survive and maintain cohesive thought but not enough to gain real strength.

There’s no breeze today and the stench from my bucket in the corner is increased. I walk to the window in search of fresh air and to be more intentional about observing my surroundings. The days seem to be growing colder and though the stone remains at relatively the same temperature, the air coming from the window has a greater delta.

I move my stiff joints and systematically flex my muscles for mobility. I try a few body-weight exercises to test my strength, get my blood circulating, and warm me. It feels good to move but it’s obvious how weak I am. I know it is my duty to survive, resist, and escape.

The cell door opens and the same three guards appear as last time.

“идти”

The first motions for me to follow and the others take up the rear. We proceed down the hallway as usual; I notice that the third door on the left is open but it’s dark inside. I slow my pace, attempting to look in but the guard shoves me from behind and “helps” me into my customary room.

 The interrogator is already seated and waiting. There is another plate of rolls, two bottles with glasses, and the closed folder sits in front of him with the remote on top. The door closes and he motions for me to sit; I oblige.

“Ben, please have a roll.”

I take the roll from his hand and consume it without question.

“I want you to know that we are here to help. I hope you see the progress we are making in recovering your memory. Though the techniques may seem aggressive, they are effective. Do you know where you are?”

“No.” But I had guessed it was in the former Soviet Union, somewhere in the expanse of eight million square miles.

“Why did you choose to employ our device on yourself?”

I don’t answer and I don’t like that he’s calling me Ben. Am I making it too easy for him to put the pieces together? How do I find answers without giving them to him? Does he expect me to drink what he’s pouring?

He sips his glass but doesn’t push the other one to me.

“Why are you here Ben?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Why do you keep calling me Ben? Is that my name?” –I don’t remember ever saying the name aloud.

“We know a great deal regarding your identity but require critical details about a recent operation in which you took part.”

“Did I have my tonsils out or something?” My sarcasm obviously does not entertain him; his eyes look toward the remote and then back at me. He takes another sip, tops off his glass and then pushes the other over to me.

“Amrika qatalat ‘amiy.”

My mind snaps to, body instantly stiffens, and I stare with hate into his eyes. His Arabic is as good as his English.

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