Anthony Smith - All the Young Warriors

"Your neck. Mine. It's mine."

Bleeker sat up and pulled his knees to his face, wrapped his arms around. They weren't going to cut his fucking head off, not these kids. If he was going to go, he'd be fighting. A bullet. Not by fucking knife in front of a camera.

Or if it had to be like that, he'd demand that Jibriil do it. The only way. Jibriil had to be man enough to do it himself. And Bleeker would sure as shit bite the hand that held the blade.

Her eyes, behind those librarian's glasses, were as clear and honest as before. Her forehead, nose, most of her cheeks, all smooth and rich as before. But her lips and chin and throat belonged to a zombie. Cracked, eaten through, white. A bandage around her neck, but Adem saw that the burns, bright with petroleum jelly, ran down beneath them. This wasn't one of those hit-and-run acid attacks he'd seen in the streets. The sick fuck had taken his time. Tied her hands so she couldn't wipe it away. Targeted her mouth, her vocal cords-that would teach her to say whatever came to mind. From now on, the perpetrator must have assumed, she would have to hide her face behind the hijab, show only her lovely eyes, and not say a word.

"Who did this?"

Sufia said, "I told you. Go away. This is what I deserved."

"You don't mean that." It was hard to look at her. He forced himself. The teeth like those on a skull, lips reduced to nearly nothing but blisters. This was his fault. He had to look. Strips of skin under her chin tight, like rubber bands nearly stretched to their snapping points. "Let's show the people what they've done to you. They're all outside right now. We…we can find the reporter. I saw one back there. We…we can…show…"

Sufia had looked away, not even listening to him. Clearing her throat. Coughing. When she finally turned back, she said, "I'm not going anywhere with you."

The others were watching. The noise from the old nurse had died down. The guards were huddled together, watching. Other women had stopped what they were doing, cautiously peeking over.

Slink away defeated or do something…bold. Scratch the first. Never again, not after his walk through town. So, that left option two.

He stepped forward grabbed Sufia's hand and pulled her to her feet. He thought about kissing her, but feared doing so would hurt her even more than she was already. So he stood eye to eye, concentrating on all of her that wasn't scarred. Finally pecked her forehead. Then, "We're leaving."

Hand in hand, Adem a few steps ahead. It wasn't that she was fighting him, but she wasn't keeping up either. The guards did nothing. The nurses did nothing. Watched them like it was TV.

Sufia said, "I'm not leaving."

"Stop it, okay? Stop with the pride already. If you don't want me, fine. If you don't want me to find someone to help you, you're nuts."

She planted her feet and Adem nearly pulled her to the ground. They were right there, right at the door. Only the stairs between them and the outside world. He didn't let go of her hand.

"You'll thank me later," he said.

"I will not! You…you think you're always right, but you are not. I am sick of this. You've ruined me. Until you, I was happy, and look at me." Shouting, phlegmy and painful. Words scratching up her throat, full of K – k-k-k-k-k.

"I offered you better! They ruined you!"

"Please, go, before it gets worse. You don't know what they've got planned for you."

"We're going, you and me, outside and to the nearest foreign camera."

One more pull. She wasn't budging. Harder. Yanked her a foot closer. Harder still. She stumbled, fell. Crying now. He pulled again, sliding her across the floor, outside the threshold. She caught the railing at the top of the stairs.

"Come on!"

"Please, no, please, no, no, Adem, no, please."

"You're insane! I'm saving you!"

Sufia held tight, lifted her head back, opened her jaw wide and let out a banshee yell. Ululating. Rasping. Her bandages spotted with blood. And more blood from the blisters around her lips, under her chin, pooling into her lap. She ululated while she cried, like gargling gravel.

Adem let go. He watched another minute, shouting right back at her in English, "No! God, Sufia, I love you! I love you so bad! Don't do this! Don't! Don't! I love you, I love you, love you, so much, Sufia!

"

She took a tortured breath and kept on with the wailing, finally turning her head to him. Staring him down as she ululated. Holding her blood-soaked palm out towards him, not for him to take, but for him to see. To remember.

He huffed. Took three stairs down. Turned and watched. She sat in the same position making the same noise. Guards now crowded behind her. The old nurse came to her side, a towel in her hand, wiping Sufia's blood from her hands. She didn't stop wailing. Adem took a few more steps. Turned again. The nurse was trying to silence her, but she brushed away the woman's help, took another ragged breath and kept on with the awful, awful noise.

Another few steps and Adem could only see Sufia's head. He wiped water from his eyes. The pain was like being stepped on. But he had to let go. He had no choice. It was either that or give his life for her. But something had clicked inside his head. Why give your life for someone who didn't want it. What sort of self-satisfaction was that? What sort of righteousness? He could've died to stay beside her, and all she would've done was kick his body and leave him in her past. What a dumbass thing to do. The anger of love assaulted his brain. The bitch. The dabo dhiibato. The bitch. She couldn't save herself. She didn't want to. All she wanted was someone to blame.

He kicked the wall on his way downstairs. Jammed his toes. Screamed. Just made him angrier. More afraid. He had let the cell phone in his pocket. He had to get back to the Rover. Limping on aching toes. Or maybe back to the BBC reporter. An exclusive interview, if only he would give him shelter, security, some goddamned aspirin, even.

He gritted his teeth, curled his bruised toes, and headed outside.

All the guns were pointed directly at his head. Ten soldiers, maybe more. And in the center of it all, not smiling, stood Jibriil.

"Welcome back, my nigga."

Twenty minutes, maybe. Without a watch, it felt like longer, even if it felt like no time at all. Bleeker at the center of the tent, like a sweat lodge. One of the guards had said something Bleeker thought meant "I've got to take a shit." So only three guards, bored. Talking to each other as if he wasn't there. The heat, Jesus, the heat. Sweat stinking of whatever spices had been in the food. Gurgling in the pit of his stomach. Chills. Was he getting sick?

Rocking back and forth. Arms tight around his knees. He could take three guards, right? He had to distract one. Had to get them closer. He'd been trained to stay patient in situations like this, look for opportunity, take it when it presented itself. Not yet. Not yet. And Jibriil hadn't shown up yet. Not yet. Not yet.

The guard who took the bathroom break came back. Well, maybe it was him. He'd had his face covered by the checkered scarf, wearing vague camouflage fatigues, so it could've been anyone. He had another guard with him, bigger and taller, carrying a bag. The first one said something to two of the others. Again, Bleeker only got a little of it. Something like, "You leave. We're here." And then Jibriil's name popped up. Another couple of words Bleeker knew were names.

The guards on duty talked it over-"You want to go?" "I'm fine here." "I could use a nap." "Sure, I can go." Two of them lowered their rifles, left the tent. The big new guard opened the bag, pulled out a slab of flatbread. He threw it at Bleeker. Growled something like "Ass" or "Dirt Ass", fuck, Bleeker wasn't even listening anymore. Making up his own translations now. Could've called him "Sir" for all he knew.