Wounded (10 page)

I can feel his eyes on me as I stare out the window, and I wish I could ask him what he is thinking. I realize I can say whatever I want. He will not know what I am saying.
 

I turn and look at him over my shoulder and let words pour out, knowing my secrets are safe.

"What are you doing to me, American? It is as if you are crawling underneath my skin, somehow. I feel you in my heart, and I do not know you. Your eyes see into me. I hate it, and I love it. I do not want you to see me. I am dirty. I am ugly inside. Men see my beauty, but not my ugliness. Or perhaps they do see it, and that is why everyone hates me, except when they want to pay me for sex, pay me for my beauty." I return to sit cross-legged on the pallet of blankets next to him. "I wonder what you see, when you look at me. Do you want me? Do you want to touch me? Do you want me to be the whore for you?" My voice is angry by the end, not yelling but rather intensely quiet.
 

I can see the confusion on his face as he hears me speak but understands nothing. He hears the anger, though, and feels it to be directed at him. I do not feel bad for his confusion, even though he has done nothing wrong to me yet. He will. He will expect me to be the whore for him, someday. He knows what I am, and that is all I can be now.
 

I am not Rania, the woman; I am Sabah, the whore. Now and always. For him and for every other man.

I turn away and prepare food for us both. I keep myself focused on the food when I hear him struggling to sit up. He hates showing pain. I know this about him already. He has to be strong all the time. No pain. No weakness.
 

I bring the food to him, and he eats it slowly, carefully. Each motion costs him pain. I wish I had some kind of medicine to alleviate the pain, but I do not. It is too much money, especially now that I am feeding two.

He thanks me when he is finished eating, using the only word of Arabic he knows. This time, when I say "you are welcome," which I taught him yesterday, he teaches me to say it in English. He says "thank you" in Arabic, and then repeats himself in English, his hand on his chest. Then he points to me and says "you are welcome" in Arabic, and repeats it in English.
 

We spend the morning exchanging words. I show him bread and teach him the word for it, and he teaches me the English equivalent. Objects are easy to learn, but abstract concepts like "please" are more difficult. I want to talk to him. I want to know how his thoughts flow into words.

My first client is scheduled for just after lunch. I find myself dreading it even more than usual. I hate the unreadable expression in Hunter's eyes as I dress in an absurdly short skirt and a top cut so low my breasts may as well be bare. I hate the disapproving look he gives me when I slather on the makeup.
 

I hate most of all the pain in his eyes when I leave the house to wait outside the mosque for my client.

This client is a repeat customer. He comes every week on this day, at this time. He is married, I know. I see the ring on his finger, or the shadow of it when he remembers to take it off. He tells me his name is Abdul, but he does not always remember to answer to it when I address him by that name, so I know it is not his real name. As if I care who is. Whether he is married or has children. I have no place to cast blame if he wishes to spend his money on me, if he needs to find sexual release with me rather than his wife.
 

If he would pay a whore for sex, he is a pig. If he cannot find what he wants or needs with a woman who does not demand money for it, then he is a pig.
 

Of course, I know nothing of such things, having never had sex with a man who has not paid me for it. Perhaps all sex is paid for in some way. I think this is true. A man who takes a woman to dinner first, takes her to drink, tells her she is beautiful, pays her father to arrange a marriage to her...this is paying for sex. It is cloaked in custom and tradition, but the result—sexual dominion of the man over the woman—is still prostitution.
 

I am not willing in this. I did not choose this life. I do what I must to survive. It is this, or starve.
 

These are the justifications I repeat to myself over and over again as Abdul approaches me, uniform straight and creased, medals polished, sidearm adjusted just so, boots shining.
 

I hate Abdul. His eyes are cruel. His fingers are hard and strong when they claw my top down, my skirt up. His breath stinks of garlic and his body of unwashed male sweat and flabby musk. His belly hangs over the zipper of his pants as he reveals himself, kneeling above me. His mouth is twisted in a cruel grin, as if he knows a secret that delights him.
 

There are different kinds of clients. There are those who hand me their money before they begin, eyes averted while I stash it under my blankets. There are those who dig it out of their pockets while they dress afterward and walk away without looking me in the eye. They are the ones who feel some shame for what they do with me.
 

Then there are men like Abdul. He wastes no time. He paws at my shirt, tugging my top down until my breasts bounce free, and then he paws at my skirt, pushing it up to bare my privates. He takes a moment to look at me, a hungry, evil grin on his thin lips, and then he shoves his short, fat member into me. He only takes a few moments, thankfully, and then he is done. He rises up to his feet, tugs his pants back into place, and buckles his belt. All the while, his greedy, leering dark eyes stare at me. And then, after a moment of triumphant silence, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a wad of money. He does not bother to count. He has made sure the correct amount is in that pocket beforehand, for the sole purpose of being able to toss the wad of filthy money onto my bare breasts.
 

He does this every time. He does it to show his power over me, to degrade me.
 

I play my own game. He expects me to scramble to count it, but I do not. I wait, motionless, while he leaves. I do not cover myself. I do not brush the greasy bills aside or stack them or count them. I leave them in place, and bear up under his gaze, let him look, let him feel powerful. When he is gone, I gather it together, stack it with the rest of my earnings, and go to clean up, stashing it in the cabinet.

Today, when Abdul tosses the money onto me, he waits. "Pick it up, whore," he growls.

I do not answer, make no move to comply.

"I gave you an instruction, whore. You must obey."

"You do not pay me to obey you. You pay me to let you have sex with me. You are finished. You may leave now."

His eyes narrow and grow angry. Fear gathers low in my gut, but I refuse to let it show.
 

"I pay you to do whatever the fuck I tell you. I told you to pick up the money. Count it. Now."

I lift my chin slightly. A refusal.

He snarls like a rabid animal, lunges for me, grabs my shirt in his hands and lifts me to my feet. He lifts me off the ground easily, holds me aloft. I refuse to show fear. Refuse to shake for him. He lowers me to my feet, takes a hand off my shirt, and slaps me across the face. It stings, but it was not a blow meant to cause damage, only to demonstrate power. Then he grins at me. The evil glaze of his eyes causes the first burst of real panic.
 

He grabs my nipple and pinches, twisting it. I scream through gritted teeth. He lets go, grinning in satisfaction, then rears back and slaps my breast so hard I collapse to my knees, breathless from agony.
 

"Pick up the money, whore." He stands over me, glaring down at me. "Count it."

I do as he says, rage burning in my chest tangled with the pain.
 

"Now you will remember," he says. "You will do as I say. You are a whore. You are paid to please me."

I remain on my knees, face to the floor, hiding my tears and my hate. He laughs and walks away. When his footsteps are gone, I adjust my clothing, but my breast hurts so badly from his blow that I cannot bear to have anything touching it. I take my money and leave the ruins of the mosque, stumbling the few feet back to my house.

Hunter is on his knees, his canvas uniform belt clenched between his teeth, struggling to get to his feet. He is growling, a long continuous sound of pain and determination.
 

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He stops, and the concern and the rage in his eyes startles me. "Rania?" He says something else I don't understand.
 

Are you okay?
I imagine he is saying.

I shake my head at him. I mean,
don't worry about it
, but he takes it to mean I am not okay. He has made it to his feet, and the pain is etched into every line of his face. He puts a hand to the wall and shuffles toward me.
 

I point to the floor. "Lie back down. You'll start bleeding again," I say.

He shakes his head. Reaches for me. Concern, worry, anger. He heard me scream, heard the blows. He stands in front of me now, heaving, panting, sweating, groaning with every breath. I hold perfectly still, feeling oddly like prey caught by the gaze of a predator. Only, this predator seems worried for me.
 

Hunter's hand lifts slowly. I want to flinch away, but I do not, and I cannot figure out why. I should. I should be afraid of Hunter, for he is a man, same as Abdul. But...Hunter is nothing like Abdul. This is as clear to me as the difference between a sunny day and a thunderstorm.
 

Hunter's fingers brush my cheek, and I realize he thinks that is where I have been struck. He realizes my cheeks are unblemished, and his face shows his confusion. He says something, asking where I am hurt, probably. I shake my head, my only possible answer. He touches my chin, then, tilting my face up and away, to one side and then the other.
 

He gently nudges me backward, examining the rest of me. I cannot help but clutch my arms over my breasts in an instinctive move to protect myself.
 

Hunters' eyes narrow, move down to my breasts. I look down as well and see that my right breast is reddened where Abdul hit me. Hunter's eyes change, and I am frightened of him suddenly. He looks ready to kill. Hate emanates from him. He reaches out his hand to touch me, and I flinch away, cross my arms tighter. The contact is too much and I wince, drop my arms away, and cradle myself gently. I want to take my shirt off, but I dare not. Not with Hunter here. I do not trust my own desires.
 

He drops his hand, but the anger does not dissipate from his eyes. He says something, a short phrase, his intonation making it sound like a question. I shrug and turn away, facing the corner.
 

I need this shirt off. My breast stings. I peel my shirt off, and the muggy air feels cool on the hot, stinging flesh of my chest. I feel Hunter's eyes on my back, feel him still standing there. I hear him grunt, a shuffling hop of a footstep. I crane my neck over my shoulder to see him fighting for balance, standing on one leg, palm on the wall but not enough to keep him upright. His good leg is trembling, and I can see he is about to collapse.
 

I curse, then turn, clutching my shirt to my chest, wincing at the pain, and snug my shoulder under his. His weight on me is enormous, a huge, overbearing burden, and I can tell he is not even leaning on me. I straighten my legs, hear him hiss as this motion bumps his shoulder, which is injured as well. He does not move away. He just stands there, using me as a crutch, regaining his balance. His arm hangs down around mine, his fingers trailing on my hip. I try to ignore the touch, the tingle of it, the not-filthy, not-unwelcome feeling of it. He finally clutches my shoulder with his hand, hops toward the bed, and I move with him, slowly and gradually. He pauses above the bed of blankets, as if trying to figure out how he can lower himself down without hurting himself.
 

He lowers himself on one leg, an awkward maneuver, his wounded leg extended in front of himself. He reaches a near-sitting position, then sighs gently and lets himself fall, grunting as he lands. The bandage around his thigh seeps red.
 

He pretends not to notice. I shrug back into my shirt, and his eyes follow me, take in my body greedily before he turns away. I do not know what to feel about his gaze on me. I should be angry at him for ogling me. I am not. But then, I am a prostitute, and I should be used male eyes on me, and I am. But somehow Hunter is different.
 

He shouldn't be an exception, but he is.

I want him to look at me, and this makes me angry at myself.
 

I re-bandage his leg, trying not to touch him.
 

I ready myself for my next client, and Hunter's eyes grow dark with anger, with something else that I dare not identify.

SIX

HUNTER

I have nothing to do but think. Nothing but memory and pain.

Derek is dead. It just hit me. I was too involved in the pain and in the mystery of Rania, but now, alone while she "works," all I have to do is feel the pain. Derek is dead.
 

God. He was my best friend. My only real friend. My brother. I've killed for him. We've stood over each other's bleeding bodies.

He's gone, but the pain won't let me cry. I can't. I don't know how anymore. After my parents died I wept, alone in a bathroom. I haven't since. Not for anything.

I won't cry for Derek, either. He wouldn't want me to. He'd tell me to get drunk in his memory. Bang a hot chick for him. Of course, none of that will happen now.
 

The reality of my situation is hitting me. I'm wounded, surrounded by insurgents. There's no sign of my unit. They might eventually come back for me, or at least to find my body. Until then, I'm stuck here. Reliant on this girl, this slip of a thing, this prostitute.

Rania. Her name is music. Her eyes are veiled pools of expression. She hides behind anger, behind toughness. It's all an act. I see the pain. See the fear. See the need. She's lonely. She hates what she does.