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Fate

Before

Soul-quaking terrorisn’t the only constant in this forsaken camp. Each day operates the same as the previous. Every morning I’m startled awake after a short, restless night’s sleep only to wonder if today will be the day they kill me as I’m dragged from my girls. After chores, either kitchen or laundry, I’m tossed back into the makeshift pen. I shouldn’t complain, as being the general’s chosen bride keeps me from what the other girls are subject to: servicing the thirty-plus horny men infesting the camp.

Then night creeps. Which you’d think would be the best since I’m left alone, but it’s not.

At least during the day, with my mind busy, I almost forget where I am, exhaustion playing a big role in the temporary hallucination. I've never fooled myself into truly forgetting where I am, but the mundane work helps make everything too debilitating.

But the night.

Louder than the boisterous chirping of nocturnal bugs, their begging for help seems to never end. Nothing to distract me from their cries of pain and my utter impotence to help. An endless convoy of disgusting men drag girl after girl out only to toss them back in minutes later, bloody, crying, battered, and shredded of what sliver of humanity they've somehow held onto this far in our captivity.

I can’t stop it, but I do what I can to comfort them, tending to their various cuts and bruises. But the emotional scars, which deepen each day we're here, are past all soothing whispers I offer up. My heart aches for the few girls who stopped responding altogether. They've sunk too deep in their despair to react to my desperate attempts to help. But who would blame them.

Even through the horrors, I’ve urged them to open up about who they are, their life outside this camp. Two are like me, or so they think, recruited with the promises of love and a happy life. The others were kidnapped from their families, ripped from their mothers’ arms in a village raid. Those are the strong ones. They have a flicker of hope that someone will come save them.

Only once did they ask about my situation, why I’m not passed around the men like they are on a daily basis. Maybe I'm too numb, but their tears of sympathy when I told them who I'm betrothed to didn't register any fear. Nor did their retelling of the general’s brutal and sadistic treatment of women.

I didn't tell them I know what he does to women.

That I've seen him do it on live video.

To my baby sister.

Tonight the shack swelters in the heat and lack of wind. Some nights the wind howls, bringing a coolness from the river, but not tonight. Sweating, struggling for deep breaths in this too-humid air, I lie awake counting the girls’ heads in the dark to make sure everyone has made it back. Not sure when they became my responsibility to protect—as much as I can, anyway—it just happened. Every night I pray they can last until help comes. If they can survive this, then maybe, with a lot of therapy and love, they can move on to live full lives. Survival is my goal.

The once-roaring campfire outside the rotting wood door dims, signaling the men are either asleep or passed out for the night. With a relieved sigh, I lie in the dirt facing the huddled group, resting my cheek on my folded hands.

And now I watch.

Now I protect.

A roar of a distant predator rumbles in the darkness, shrieks of birds echoing through the night as I watch. Turning to face the wall, I feel around the dirt and grip the white stone I found the first few days by the river while doing their laundry. With the stone, I scrape a single line down the coarse wood. At the end, I allow my hand to drop to the dirt and release the grip on the rock.

I can’t see them in the dark, but I don’t need to. I know what’s there. Seven shaky etched marks for seven days.

Twenty-one days to go.

That's if the CIA keeps their word.

With the girls asleep, no one awake to witness my weakness, I curl into a tight ball and release a hopeless sob into my awaiting hands.

**

THE FAINTEST OF AIRbrushing the fabric of my covering snaps me awake. At my back, the door closes on silent hinges. Every nerve ending tingles as I strain to process what’s going on while staying in the exact same position to not alert this intruder that I'm now awake. This is a first. Those bastards have never come for a girl this late into the night—or early morning, I guess.

A large body moves on silent feet among the sleeping group, not waking a single one. I sleep with my veil down, so he can't notice me visually tracking his dark form by the light from the near full moon streaming through the rusted tin roof.

He pauses in the center of the small room, hands on something strapped to his chest, and rotates as if he's searching something. Or someone.

Me.

His scan of the room pauses. Stepping over two neighboring sleeping girls, he squats directly in front of my face, balancing on the balls of his black combat boots.

Even with me trying to regulate my breathing to appear asleep, my deep, scared pants can probably be heard back in the States. My heart hammers against my chest, making small beads of sweat form along my forehead.

He doesn't say a word. Doesn't move. Just squats there, staring, I assume. I don't dare look up to verify.