Food again: a jerky like piece of red meat and boiled potatoes. Two bottles of water this time and I’m careful not to repeat my previous mistake.
When they came with it, I tried to look through the slot but saw nothing new in the fraction of a second I had before and after the view was blocked with the tray. The only thing of note was the non-military footwear being worn by the person delivering my food.
The mystery of my identity, reason for incarceration, my current location, and how long I’ve been here swirl in my mind. I feel like I’ve read this book before. How did they put the pieces together? How did they escape?
I take my shirt off and begin a physical inspection. I have healing cuts and abrasions covering most of my left side. My torso and right side show significant burn scars and there are apparent skin grafts. I see no other identifying marks or tattoos. I replace my shirt and remove my pants. I find the same injuries on the same sides with the addition of some heavy bruising on my left quad and the new burn marks on my left calf. A breeze from the window hastens the donning of my pants.
My feet are in poor shape and my head is still throbbing. My mouth feels disgusting. I take the cap from one of the water bottles and rub the edge thin on one side. I work the edge between each tooth and also use it to scrape the fronts and backs.
The door opens and two guards approach me. I decide to cooperate, avoid pain, and walk with them down the hall. One leads and the other is behind me. We take the same left turn, and go into the same room.
The room lighting is indirect and soft, spotlights are off and turned toward the walls. A man sits in the chair which was vacant last time. He appears to be in his early forties, tall, well built, with a strong jawline and medium faded black hair. There’s a scar, a piece of cartilage missing from the edge of his left ear, and he hasn’t shaved in days. A thick, grey, wool button up fits perfectly in the shoulders and matches his steely eyes.
The two push me forward into the room and forcefully sit me in the chair. My feet against the smooth steel plate causes me to shudder. To my surprise, they leave without cuffing me. There’s a folder on the table this time, as well as two steel cups, two unmarked glass bottles with clear liquid, and plate with rolls on it.
He picks up a roll and holds it out to me. I reach half way and hesitate but he has no expression to read; I’m not sure if I should take it. He doesn’t move, speak, or change his face; we are locked in a subconscious moment, each analyzing the other. At least, I think he is. My stomach wants the roll badly but I don’t want to give him the upper hand.
“No thank you.”
I don’t know what could be in the roll or what I might owe if I took it.
“Есть,” he followed it up with English, “Eat.”
His Russian sounded slightly different from what I had previously heard. I contemplate the follow-up offer. His deadpan delivery makes me question if it’s an offer or an order. He’s still holding the bread toward me. What’s the dynamic of this relationship?
“I’m not hungry,” I lie, pressing my luck. It’s then I notice his other hand is holding what looks like a miniature walkie-talkie. He presses a button, then another, and sets it on the table.
“Есть.”
There’s no emotion, inflection, nothing that would indicate his mood. I decide to take the bread from his hand because he’s been awkwardly holding it out for what seems like a long time now. It’s surprisingly soft. I place it on the table in front of me without taking a bite. After observing me for a moment, he picks up the transmitter and presses a button.
Instant pain, like an icepick to my skull. Clinching my eyes shut, I bow my head slightly, feeling my neck muscles twist and strain. It’s duration only but a second still has me seeing spots. I slowly raise my head and open my eyes; all I see is the bread.
“Есть”
Am I imagining it or was there a tinge of amusement in his inflection? Obviously, he’s serious about me eating this roll, but why? I’ve seen a consequence if I don’t; what if I do? I’m a prisoner for a reason even though I don’t know why. If this is some technique to get me to talk, it’s pointless to resist because I can’t remember anything. I pick up the roll and smell it. I’m not sure if I thought I’d be able to smell something odd but all I smell is bread. The first bite is so good that I finish it in two more. It isn’t a smile but a look of approval or satisfaction on the man’s face.
“Xорошо. Tеперь пьете.”
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