The Resilient Mate

Chapter Two.

Groaning I sat up and went to hold my head but one of my wrists was chained to a pipe. Frantically I looked around to find any sign of what the hell was going on. I was in a dark, dank, concrete cell with grime covered bars a few feet in front of me.

A steady dripping sound reverberated through my mind as I clutched my head with my one free hand. The murmur of voices could be heard.

As I was drifting back off, cold water drenched my body, shocking me awake. I spluttered as the sound of jangling keys rung through my ears and the door was pulled open. Multiple men walked into my cell, unchaining my handcuffs and dragging me roughly behind them. I had no idea where I was or what was going on as I stumbled over my own feet. All my training had seemed to have evaded me as they pulled me into a room and chained my up by my wrists, pulling it tight and forcing me to stand on my tip toes for fear of the joints in my shoulders dislocating.

In broken English they questioned me and when I refused to answer, introduced me to a few… persuasive techniques that they’d mastered. I was deprived of sleep, beaten, electrocuted and choked. The sleep deprivation kept me on edge and amplified the pain my body felt. They kept me constantly guessing by holding mock executions every few days; making me dig my own grave, ‘shooting’ me with unloaded guns, shooting near me and shooting at me with blank cartridges. The pain I experienced was far outweighed by the fear and confusion I felt. In this instance my mind was against me.

I don’t know how long I’d been down there until I snapped. They fed me once every two days and I’d ‘accidently’ lost the one cup they gave me. It had been hard but I’d managed to pull the handle off it and sharpen it into something that resembled a weapon by grinding it against the ground.

When the time came for more pain, I stabbed the first man in the eye and the second in the throat. I was weak and my body was battered and broken but it was kill or be killed. I took the rifle strapped to his back and limped out of the cell.

I shot anyone I encountered; I didn’t care if they were al-Qaeda… they were in my way, therefore, they died. My thought process was that if they were here, they were against me or they were suffering; so I killed them all.

I set the house on fire and limped to an outbuilding where I proceeded to collapse.

A farmer had found me and stitched me up to the best of his abilities. He’d given me food, water and shelter and for that I was eternally grateful. My shoulder and many of my other injuries had become infected in my time with the al-Qaeda rebels. The only comfort I had was knowing that they were all dead… by my hand.

I knew that I had to get back to Britain as they would’ve proclaimed me missing in action and sent a notice to my family of my death; because that’s what they would assume I was.

I stayed with the farmer for three months, healing and helping him and his family with small chores around the house. Physically I was healing from the month I spent down in that hell hole; I had thin, long scars on my back and stomach from the cane whip they’d used on me, burn marks, the gunshot wound on my shoulder and jagged scars on my wrists from the chains they’d kept me in.

But the emotional and mental scars ran deeper. I dreaded falling asleep as night terrors haunted me and I began to develop insomnia.

Through the duration of my stay, my afgani vocabulary had greatly improved and I was easily able to converse with the family I stayed with in their native tongue instead of broken English.

When it had been time for me to leave I said my fair wells and headed towards the nearest military base. I was put on the quickest flight back to Britain and before I knew it, I was being debriefed and asked to give my recount of the events from the past six months.