Wounded (4 page)

"I have no...no money." I hand back the packet, although it takes a huge effort to do so. "Take it back—I cannot pay. I am sorry."

"I said nothing about money." He chuckles like something is funny, but I do not know what.

 
One of the others speaks up. "She is too young, Malik. No."

The one with the packet of meat—whose name seems to be Malik—glances back at the other one in disgust. "She is plenty old enough. You do not have to join in." He looks at me. "Have you bled?"

I am confused. "What? Bled?" I try to pull away.

His grip on my arms tightens. "Yes, girl. Bled. Your monthly blood. Woman's blood."

I feel horror and embarrassment pulse through me. "Y-yes. More than a year now."

He turns to the other men, grinning. "See? She is a woman."

I am beginning to understand what is about to occur. I shake my head and try to pull free. "Please, no. No."

Malik does not let go. His grin widens. "Yes, girl. Yes. You ate my food. Now you pay me. It will not hurt too much. I am not a monster. I will not share you."

"Yes, you will," someone says, threat in his voice.

Malik growls, lifts his rifle from the ground without letting go of my arm. "No, I will
not
. She ate
my
food."

"You do not need to be this way," the one who first protested says. "She is just a girl. I will buy you more food. Let her go."

Malik spits on the ground, swaying a little. "You are weak, Mohammed."
 

He tugs me away from the fire, towards a black patch of shadows hiding the stairs. I stumble after him, fear pounding through me wildly now. The stairs creak under his weight, and in my fear-blindness I miss a stair, stumbling. Malik catches me, holds me up by the wrist and tugs me to my feet. There is a pallet of blankets on the floor in a corner, an empty bottle of booze, a box of shells, a cardboard box with cans and other food items in it, and next to the bed are some magazines with a picture of naked American women on the front.
 

I struggle, pull away, and try to kick him. He darts out of reach and then slaps me across the face, hard enough that stars burst across my eyes and my ears ring.
 

I smell his breath as he thrusts his face close to mine. "Listen, girl. It is a fair trade. You need to eat, and nothing is free."

"I had one bite," I whisper. "Please, let me go."

Malik tugs my ripped hijab from my head and tosses it to the ground, pulling hair loose in the process, but I barely feel it. "I will make you a deal. If you cooperate quietly, I will give you more food, and some money. It has been weeks since I have had a woman, and you are very pretty. I am feeling generous. If you keep struggling, I might be forced to hurt you, and I do not want to do that. Not to such a pretty little face like yours."

Everything in me shrinks away from him, but my need for food, my need to survive moves my mouth. "Food? And money?"
 

He laughs. "That got your attention."
 

He does not let go of me, but pushes me to the blankets. I stumble and fall to my back, scramble away from him, but he kneels near the foot end of the blankets to rummage in the box. He pulls out several cans of food, a packet of jerked meat, and a bottle of liquor. He sets these things on the floor, and then reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wad of money, peels off a few bills, and adds it to the pile.
 

"There. I think that is more than generous." Malik grins at me, and I realize he is drunk.

I cower against the wall, staring at the food and the money, well aware that what he is offering will keep me alive for at least a month, if I'm careful. But what he is suggesting I do to get it...I cannot. I just cannot. My knees tighten, and my arms cross over my chest.

"I...I do not—" my voice cracks.
 

I need the food, but I do not know how to agree. Fear boils through me, disgust at the sweat-stained armpits of his shirt, the scraggly beard on his chin, the hard brown eyes, the acne scars on his forehead.

"It will be over quick, girl."

He moves to kneel over me, pushes my dress up over my hips with rough hands. He unbuttons the front, and my heart hammers as he bares my breasts, my privates. My eyes are closed, my body trembling. My stomach growls, gnaws, fueling my desperation. Hard fingers claw at my breasts, and I whimper. Hard fingers rip away my thin cotton panties, and dig into my soft privates. I cry out loud, but he ignores me.
 

I try to pull away, but he holds me in place with a hand on my shoulder. A belt jingles, and that sound becomes seared into my soul. A zipper goes
zzzhrip
, and then his weight is above me. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, try to close my knees, but he is already between my legs and something hard is pressing against my privates. I whimper again, and then something pinches, sharp and painful, and then pops.
 

I weep quietly for my virginity.
 

It is over quickly, and his weight is gone. Something hot and wet is on my leg. A piece of cloth is dropped onto my chest, and then I cannot feel his presence or smell him. I open my eyes, and see that I am alone.
 

Allah, what have I done?
 

I have not prayed to Allah in a very long time, and I do not know why I do so now.
 

I take the rag and wipe myself. There is thick, sticky white fluid dripping down my thighs, mixed with blood. I nearly vomit but have nothing in my stomach to bring up, so I only dry-heave and taste acid. I take the cans and wrap them in my hijab. The money I clutch in my damp palm.
 

I run home. I do not cry until I am in my bed. I bathe in the morning, but do not feel clean, even after scrubbing until my skin is raw. I look at the wealth of food, the money that can feed me, and I feel a bit better. It was awful, but it kept me alive.
 

I eat, and push away my self-loathing, my disgust, my worry for what I will do when this is gone.

TWO

HUNTER

 
Operation Iraqi Freedom; Des Moines, Iowa, 2003

The bar is dim and blurry and spinning as I finish my beer. I've lost count by now. Ten? Twelve? There might have been a few shots in there, too. It doesn't matter. Derek is next to me, perched on the stool with one foot on the scratched wood floor, flirting with a tall brown-haired girl with huge round breasts. He's close to scoring, I'm pretty sure. He's been working this girl for over an hour, playing up his best war stories from the last tour. We've been back for a month, and we're not due to ship back to Iraq for another month, but Derek has gotten plenty of mileage out of his experiences. And by mileage, I mean ass.
 

This girl, for instance, is hanging off his every word, leaning closer and closer to him, arching her back to make her already-impressive rack even bigger. She's stroking his knee absently, and he's pretending not to notice, all the while inching his own hand up her knee toward her thigh, which is bare almost to her hip bones in the little khaki shorts she's wearing.

 
I wish him well. I've got my own piece of heaven waiting at home...well,
her
home. It's where I've been staying since I got back Stateside. Lani Cutler has been my girlfriend since my sophomore year of high school, and she waited for me through Basic, gave me somewhere to stay until I shipped out, and then gave me one hell of a warrior's send-off...for three days straight. And now I'm back and she's here still, giving me a warrior's welcome and a warm bed. I don't know what else it is between us, exactly, which is part of the reason I've tied one on tonight. Things are different, difficult, and confused.
 

I keep trying to start the conversation with her, but she always avoids it.

I was gone for over a year, and I know better than to ask what—or who—she did while I was gone, since I never demanded she wait for me. She's a good girl, sweet, beautiful, smart, from a good family. Too good for the likes of me, but she doesn't seem to know that. She claims to love me, and I believe her. I've been thinking of asking her to marry me, to make sure I've always got someone to come home to, permanently. I love her, I think. I think about her when I'm gone, miss her. I can see us together.
 

I've even bought the ring. Little thing, not real expensive, but it's something.

But I have doubts.

At some point, my beer disappears and is replaced by a glass of water with four wedges of lemon. A rocks glass full of pretzel nuggets is in front of me, and suddenly, nothing has ever tasted so good as those yeasty little balls of crunchy goodness.
 

Derek laughs at something the girl—whom I’ve named The Rack—says and stands up. "We're gonna get out of here, Hunt. You good?"

I nod. "Yep. ’M good. Not a far walk from here."

Derek frowns. "Sure you're in any kind of condition to walk, bro? You look three sheets to the wind."

I shrug. "Maybe two sheets. But I'm good.”

“Dude, don’t be a dickhead. You’re hammered. Get in the cab with us.”

“Fuck you,” I mumble.

“You first, asshat.” Derek is laughing at me, but I’m too dizzy to care.

"Oh, be nice to your friend," The Rack says. "Can't you see he's pining over a girl?"

Derek laughs. "Sweetheart, that's not pining. He's gonna stumble home and fuck her sideways."

I blear at the girl, wondering if I'm that obvious. "Shuddup, Derek," I slur. "'Sides. I'm pretty sure that's all it is. Fuckin'. Just fuckin'. No love. Just sex."

"See?" The girl slaps Derek's shoulder. "He's pining. He loves her, but she doesn't love him. I'm a bartender. I know that look. Now, get your friend home, and then take me to your place."

Then I'm stumbling outside into the bitter Iowa winter, hunching against the driving wind. I'd forgotten it was winter, for a minute. I've been in the desert so long I find the chill unbearable now. Before I shipped out, I'd have been out in this in a T-shirt, playing tackle football with Derek and the guys. This little flurry storm wouldn't have stopped us from playing ball. We never even bothered with coats until it was single digits.

I'm sliding into the cab, The Rack next to me, her slim, soft arm pressing against mine. I mean, I know she's going home with Derek, and I've got Lani waiting for me, but I'm drunk and I don't mind her proximity.
 

"You smell nice, like vanilla," I say.
 

Oops. I hadn't meant to say that. Kind of a creeper thing to say. Fortunately, the Rack is amiable enough and experienced enough with drunk people to not take me seriously.

"Thanks," she giggles, and her boobs bounce pleasantly. I try not to stare.

I focus out the window on the shards of snow whipping past, the trees and the buildings of suburban Des Moines. She giggles again at something Derek says, and now that I don't have her bouncing tits to distract me, the sound of her giggle is actually fairly obnoxious, but I can't place why. Something about it irritates me, rubs me the wrong way.
 

Oh, god, I'm entering the dickhead phase of my drunk. I sigh at myself and concentrate on trying to see single objects rather than double.
 

We pull into Lani's apartment complex, and I hand Derek a couple of random bills from my pocket to cover the bar tab and the cab fare.
 

"Thanks for the ride," I say. I wink at them, or try to. I think I actually just closed both eyes.
 

Derek laughs. "Yeah, dude, no problem. Get some sleep. We'll hit the gym tomorrow."

I nod and extend my hand. Derek slaps my palm and grabs my hand as if we're about to arm wrestle, and then lets go. I get out and stumble to the door, peering unsteadily at the number to make sure it's the right one. It is, and I go inside, finding the apartment dark and silent. There's a single candle burning on the kitchen counter, one of the crazy scented ones Lani likes so much. Cherry butterscotch buttered coconut rum, or some stupid shit like that. I blow it out, because Lani tends to leave them lit all night, which is a fire hazard, even though she acts like it's not.
 

I lean against the counter, breathing in the scent of extinguished candle. I've always wished they'd make a candle that smells like a blown-out candle. The clock on the microwave says one-fifty-five, and I know it's probably unlikely that I'll see any action with Lani tonight. She's a receptionist at a doctor's office and has to get up pretty early to be at work, so she goes to bed early. It doesn't bother me, usually, since I'm an early riser myself, having been in the Marine Corps for such a long time. But tonight, I'm horny. I'm worked up.
 

Now that I'm home and away from the familiar comfort of the bar, being drunk is a little unpleasant, dizzy and disorienting. I want to sleep, but I know I won't be able to. I want to make love to Lani, but that's not going to happen, either. She might wake up, she might even respond enough to let me do what I want, but she won't really wake up, she'll just move a little, make some partially fake moaning sounds, and then go back to sleep.
   

I crack open a Dr. Pepper from the fridge, grab a box of Cheez-Its, and plop in front of the TV, grabbing the remote and flicking it on. I click through channels aimlessly, munching and sipping, stopping on a few minutes of Purdue-Clemson game, but it doesn't hold my interest. A few more channels, and then I land on CNN, coverage from the war. I try to change the channel, but it doesn't happen. My finger won't press the button.
 

I see the flashes, the tracers, hear clip footage of the
hack-hack...hackhackhack
of AK fire, and suddenly I'm transported, kneeling beside an open door, M16 tucked into my shoulder, kicking as I blast triple bursts at a red-and-white-checked
keffiyeh
visible on a rooftop.
 

My head aches, my chest clenches, and my fists tighten until I hear the plastic remote cracking in my hand, and then the segment ends and a commercial for Tide detergent shakes me out of it. I flick on the TV and scan the DVDs on the shelf, but nothing seems interesting.