He has forgotten
that he used to exist and that he used to love him. He doesn’t
even think about him while taking a shower. They have told
him that if he stabs people in the chest or hits them in
the streets of his own hometown, he would make God happy.
He has forgotten
that he once wanted to become a lawyer to get his right to
marry him. He has forgotten that blonde guys used to turn
him on and he was the only brunette he ever wanted to be
with. He was an exception but now he’s just like anyone who’s
been captured because of protesting for ”Human Value”.
He’s looking for
something that he’d never find: “The Meaning of His Life”.
He can’t recall his past. He can’t even recall yesterday’s
interrogations, innocent faces, shattered minds of young
boys and girls in the room. What has he done! How many boys
and girls he must have had screwed, physically and mentally.
She’s strong,
beautiful even with the blindfold on, held together and ready.
He doesn’t like the last part, READY. Readiness makes it
hard to get over a genius mind. She won’t suffer, she won’t
scream, she wouldn’t beg. He doesn’t like it. He has seen
hundreds of young girls in the torture room. They all expect
to be saved; saved by a call, a miracle, saved by God. But
this one, this girl, she’s ready for everything to happen.
The blindfold has made her even scarier.
Her indifferent
smile, her crossed hands that have hugged her breasts, intimidates
him. He wears his invisible mask and walks towards her. She
won’t get out of here. That smile shouldn’t be seen outside
these walls.
He wakes up from
a dreamless sleep. It is the weekend but he has bones to
crush, smiles to make disappear, lives to get. It’s a new
day, it’s a new dawn and he’s gonna be a step closer to heaven
and God.
He has forgotten
that he couldn’t even think about fucking girls. He could
like them, hate them, love them but he couldn’t fall in love
with any. He couldn’t even manage to TRY to sleep with any.
Ali was his first and he was meant to be the last one. But
now his job wouldn’t be done if raping wasn’t included in
the daily routine torture. God wouldn’t accept his prayers
if he didn’t punish the protesters. Freedom isn’t something
they are allowed to have. He has forgotten what Freedom meant
to him. He can’t remember his nights at Ali’s, tears of happiness
and then their devastating future image.
He has tamed her,
she’s writing a long fake confession. He wouldn’t remember
this tomorrow, so what? God is watching. Heaven is waiting.
Ali is in the
other room; they call it “The Second Unit” of the city’s
prison. They say if you get in there, there would be no way
back. You’ll be gone forever. And that’s exactly where he
is right now: Nowhere.
He walks in. Ali’s
tied to the chair. The room is watching, God is watching.
Freedom? He’s gonna give it to him right away: “You’ve got
two options; die here or go live on television and take back
your words.” Ali can’t tell if he is serious or it is all
a big fucking joke. He smiles, just a faint smile and his
spinal cord twitches. It takes a couple of seconds to realize
the pain. The pain of forbidden love used to be more than
this. The memory of the past draws a smile on his face. And
it’s then that the second one falls on his fingers. He faints.
Darius or better
say Ahmed, his new religious name, keeps showing up every
seven hours and each time he asks the same questions: Why
do you work for western countries? Why do you lead the protests
each Tuesday? What do you have on your Facebook page? It
is like he can’t remember the last time he has been in this
room. Ali can’t believe the man who was literally torturing
him used to be his best friend and then his boyfriend. He
has been brainwashed. Ali feels helpless, he has to save
himself. So he asks for a pen and paper; he writes anything
they want to hear. Confessions that are never true but they
are the way out. He crushes his ego, cries picturing himself
as someone he never was. He gets released right away. He
flies to the US as soon as he gets himself together. He is
free but his heart is still full of questions and murdered
smiles.
Dear Darius,
It’s been three
months and eleven days that I have not gotten to see you.
In the cell, I would wake up every day with bleeding fingers
in my pockets, cold and bruised body but a heart full of
love and helplessness. I would wish to hear your steps walking
in every—I don’t know how many—hours and hear you talking
to me like you had never known me. It was so sexy. A tough
game. The adrenalin rushing through my body, getting deep
down to my core would save me. Now here in Boston I don’t
want to get out of this warm bed knowing I wouldn’t hear
your voice again. My body alarms every seven hours and makes
me lay still and stare at the pillow that used to be yours.
I smile at it and wait but there’s no hitting after each
smile. There’s no slapping, no breaking body parts, there’s
no pain.
I have saved all
our photos together in Dena’s laptop. I drink my espresso
and review each story behind every picture. The last picture
of the album is the one I took when you were walking out
of the door heading to join the army. I was proud of you,
I can remember that strong feeling: “My boyfriend was going
to save lives.” But did you ever save any?
