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Authors: Ken Brosky
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life that I never
thought I could have truly missed so much. I love diet soda, the way my tongue
cringes at the bitterness of the aspartame, the artificial aftertaste that
takes so long to get used to.
“How did you get through it?” I ask.
Joshua sits back, grabbing a potato chip and holding it in
front of him.
“A potato chip?”
Joshua smiles, popping it into his mouth and crunching it
between his teeth. “I was in isolation, just like you. After awhile, I was
grinding my teeth so much that my jaw loosened one of the earmuffs. I could
hear something and at first I couldn’t figure out what it was. But then I heard
the wrinkling of plastic. And I heard the noise again.” He grabs another potato
chip, places it between his teeth, and crunches down again. “A guard. Somewhere
nearby. Maybe even inside the room, watching me. Eating chips.”
I rub my lips against my teeth, trying to imagine how much
time passed while I was in the cell. “I’m having a hard time remembering
anything.”
“I remember my cell,” Joshua says. “The walls were painted black
and there was a small light in the ceiling. No window. There were speakers in
the corners of the ceiling, four of them. They’d play this awful music all the
time, so loud that my ears would ring afterward for hours. Then, when the
ringing started to subside, the music would turn on again.”
The door opens and the two sitting on the couches cry out,
clutching themselves and curling up. Two young soldiers and one middle-aged man
dressed in a shiny gray suit step inside, each holding an M-16 pointed toward
the floor. Emblazoned on the man’s chest is the gold Anodyne logo. He looks
like the type who belongs in a corner office at a software company. He has dark
hair combed to the right and deep lines on his cheeks. His gray suit looks
tailor-made, given how snug it fits at the cuffs and shoulders. I can’t help
but notice he has a silver wedding band around his left ring finger.
“Time to go back to the cells,” the contractor says. He
stares at me with narrowed eyes. Maybe because I didn’t flinch like the others.
Maybe he likes to see people flinch.
“All of your papers should be ready to go.”
“I’m not finished with my soda,” I say. I have this sudden
urge to get a rise out of him.
“Too bad.”
“Shit, just let them take their food,” one of the soldiers
says with a thick accent. He looks older than his cohort, obviously annoyed by
the contractor. He could be feeling
his conscience getting the best of him, but I’m willing to bet he’s probably
just getting tired of dragging half-dead bodies from room to room. No one with
a conscience could get used to this.
“Just grab your shit and get going,” the contractor tells me.
I grab my soda and follow Joshua out. The contractor stays
behind both of us while the soldiers carefully help two of the others off the
couch. I risk one look over my shoulder. The soldiers are carrying the others’
weight on their shoulders, letting their guns hang from the shoulder straps,
and the detainees simply stare out as if their eyes were windows and their real
bodies are trapped inside, banging on the glass.
They take me and Joshua back into a cell, along with the two
others. The soldiers leave the door open and both of the comatose prisoners
stand next to the shit bucket and stare at the doorway. I can hear voices in
the hallway. Two pale men in gray pinstripe suits walk by speaking my language
without accents, talking about a prisoner who can’t stop wetting himself.
Joshua sits on the floor, next to a soggy thin mattress that looks stained with
shit.
A soldier steps into the doorway and motions to me. I follow
him back into the interrogation room. The general who interrogated me before
sits behind the desk, smoking a menthol cigarette and ashing into the tray
sitting next to an inch-high stack of papers. I sit down in the chair without
the assistance of the shadowing soldier who—for the first
thought I could have truly missed so much. I love diet soda, the way my tongue
cringes at the bitterness of the aspartame, the artificial aftertaste that
takes so long to get used to.
“How did you get through it?” I ask.
Joshua sits back, grabbing a potato chip and holding it in
front of him.
“A potato chip?”
Joshua smiles, popping it into his mouth and crunching it
between his teeth. “I was in isolation, just like you. After awhile, I was
grinding my teeth so much that my jaw loosened one of the earmuffs. I could
hear something and at first I couldn’t figure out what it was. But then I heard
the wrinkling of plastic. And I heard the noise again.” He grabs another potato
chip, places it between his teeth, and crunches down again. “A guard. Somewhere
nearby. Maybe even inside the room, watching me. Eating chips.”
I rub my lips against my teeth, trying to imagine how much
time passed while I was in the cell. “I’m having a hard time remembering
anything.”
“I remember my cell,” Joshua says. “The walls were painted black
and there was a small light in the ceiling. No window. There were speakers in
the corners of the ceiling, four of them. They’d play this awful music all the
time, so loud that my ears would ring afterward for hours. Then, when the
ringing started to subside, the music would turn on again.”
The door opens and the two sitting on the couches cry out,
clutching themselves and curling up. Two young soldiers and one middle-aged man
dressed in a shiny gray suit step inside, each holding an M-16 pointed toward
the floor. Emblazoned on the man’s chest is the gold Anodyne logo. He looks
like the type who belongs in a corner office at a software company. He has dark
hair combed to the right and deep lines on his cheeks. His gray suit looks
tailor-made, given how snug it fits at the cuffs and shoulders. I can’t help
but notice he has a silver wedding band around his left ring finger.
“Time to go back to the cells,” the contractor says. He
stares at me with narrowed eyes. Maybe because I didn’t flinch like the others.
Maybe he likes to see people flinch.
“All of your papers should be ready to go.”
“I’m not finished with my soda,” I say. I have this sudden
urge to get a rise out of him.
“Too bad.”
“Shit, just let them take their food,” one of the soldiers
says with a thick accent. He looks older than his cohort, obviously annoyed by
the contractor. He could be feeling
his conscience getting the best of him, but I’m willing to bet he’s probably
just getting tired of dragging half-dead bodies from room to room. No one with
a conscience could get used to this.
“Just grab your shit and get going,” the contractor tells me.
I grab my soda and follow Joshua out. The contractor stays
behind both of us while the soldiers carefully help two of the others off the
couch. I risk one look over my shoulder. The soldiers are carrying the others’
weight on their shoulders, letting their guns hang from the shoulder straps,
and the detainees simply stare out as if their eyes were windows and their real
bodies are trapped inside, banging on the glass.
They take me and Joshua back into a cell, along with the two
others. The soldiers leave the door open and both of the comatose prisoners
stand next to the shit bucket and stare at the doorway. I can hear voices in
the hallway. Two pale men in gray pinstripe suits walk by speaking my language
without accents, talking about a prisoner who can’t stop wetting himself.
Joshua sits on the floor, next to a soggy thin mattress that looks stained with
shit.
A soldier steps into the doorway and motions to me. I follow
him back into the interrogation room. The general who interrogated me before
sits behind the desk, smoking a menthol cigarette and ashing into the tray
sitting next to an inch-high stack of papers. I sit down in the chair without
the assistance of the shadowing soldier who—for the first
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