Sherman Alexie - The Toughest Indian in the World

“Stop looking at me,” he said.

“Where’s the large man?” I asked again.

“Get on your feet,” he said as he looked down at me along the barrel of his rifle. I wondered if he was going to murder me. I dreamed of a hero’s grave, a white cross, the proper flag.

I stood and stripped. It was cold, so cold that I could barely breathe, though it had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of that room.

“Get on the table,” said one of the white soldiers. I looked at him but could see only the blue of his eyes.

I tried to walk but my knees buckled. I sank to the floor.

“Get your ass up,” said blue eyes.

I could feel the blood flooding through my veins. At that moment, I was convinced that most of my blood, the plasma, the red and white blood cells, was so close to the surface that it would take only a few moments to completely empty me.

“Stop,” I said or thought I said. It did not matter.

The soldiers forced me onto the table and strapped me facedown with the black restraining belts. One belt on each ankle, one across the back of each knee, another across my lower back, another across my neck and shoulders, and one for each wrist. The only movement I could make was turning my head from side to side. I could see the silver belts circling the soldiers’ waists. I could see their hands tightly gripping their rifles.

“Put the mask on,” said blue eyes.

A black leather hood was pulled over my head. I was blind. I thrashed and struggled against the mask and the restraining belts, against the laughter of the soldiers.

“Please,” I said. “Stop.”

One of the soldiers slapped my bare behind and then all three of them walked out of the room. I heard the door click shut. I heard the lock turn. I heard the sound of their boots as they walked away. I heard everything.

When you are blind, there is no such thing as silence. In the dark and din, I waited. I waited. I whispered my name over and over, and whispered the names of my parents, and whispered the names of all of the trees and plants growing on my reservation, and whispered the color of my family’s home and the color of the sky at three in the morning when I walked outside to use the outhouse, and whispered the date of my birth, and whispered the dates of my mother’s birth and my father’s birth, and the birth date of my twin brother, who died in the womb and was little more than a handful of flesh when he fell out of my mother’s body. I was worried that my fear might take away all of my memories, as it had already eradicated the memory of my parents’ faces, but as I listened to my own voice, as it traveled from one corner to the next, as it slid along the clean white walls and bounced off the clean white floors, I knew that place was being filled with my rumors, my myths, my stories. With my voice, I suddenly believed, I could explode the walls of that room and escape.

So I lifted my head and shouted my name.

My voice pushed against the walls.

The walls did not move.

I lifted my head and shouted my name.

My voice pushed against the walls.

The walls did not move.

Exhausted, I lay my head against the cold metal table and waited.

I waited.

I waited until the door opened again and I heard the soft squeak of leather shoes, four shoes meaning two people, and the cacophonous rattle of four wheels. The two people pushed a cart, a table, something into the room until it bumped against my table.

“Excuse me, young Mr. Lot,” said a male voice, accented, British perhaps or Australian, cultured, refined, as smooth as the clean white walls of the room.

“Don’t hurt me,” I said.

“I will certainly do my best not to,” said the British or Australian man. I felt his cold hands touching my arms, my legs, pushing and prodding.

“Twelve years old, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re very big for your age, Mr. Lot.”

“My family, we’re all big.”

“We don’t need the local,” the British or Australian man said to the other person in the room.

“No anesthetic?” asked the other person, a woman, a deep voice, no accent at all. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said the British or Australian man as he flipped through a book. I could hear the turning of pages and wondered if he was reading the Bible.

“Are you priests?” I asked them.

Both of them laughed.

“No, Jonah,” said the man. “We’re doctors.”

“Don’t hurt me,” I said again. I begged. The male doctor placed his hand on my head. It was not a tender touch. His hand was heavy.

“Son,” he said, though he was not my father. “We’re going to do what we have to do, and we’ll do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible. That’s all I can promise. Now, you need to hush while we work.”

I could hear the rattle of metal against metal. I did not know if I heard tools scraping against a metal tray or surgical instruments being sharpened. In my mind, I could see the needles and knives, the saws and hammers. I could see the cruel eyes of the doctors, the rest of their faces hidden by white surgical masks. Behind those masks, I knew there must be scars, open wounds, and jagged teeth. Behind those masks, I knew there must be more metal: aluminum staples holding the skin together, iron sockets containing the eyes, and steel blades substituting for teeth.

“This is going to be a little cold,” said the female doctor.

I felt an icy liquid roll over my left hip, then my right hip. I was so frightened and cold that it could easily have been my own blood.

“What was that?” I asked, crying now.

“Disinfectant,” said the male doctor. “Now, please, be quiet. I’ve told you once.”

“What are you doing to me?” I asked. I lifted my head. I struggled against the restraining belts.

“Stop moving,” said the woman doctor.

I felt a strong hand on the back of my neck as it pressed my head against the table. I could not move. The male doctor leaned down close to my ear.

“Jonah,” he whispered. “That is your name, is it not? Jonah?”

“Yes,” I said. The pressure on my neck was painful.

“Jonah,” he said. “You’re irritating me. And I am sure you’re also irritating Dr. Clancy. Is he not, Dr. Clancy?”

“He certainly is,” she said.

“Jonah,” he said. “I know this is all very frightening for you. I wish there was something I could do about that. But there is simply nothing that can be done. Now, if you refuse to be quiet, we’ll have to gag you. And you don’t want that, do you now?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“Then I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said. I heard the anger in his voice and something beyond that, a kind of resignation, a weary acceptance of his role in that prison.

“The ten-gauge?” asked Dr. Clancy, the female doctor.

“Yes,” said the male doctor.

I wondered what kind of weapon the doctors were talking about. I felt two sets of hands on my body.

“You’re going to feel some pressure here,” said Dr. Clancy.

I felt a hot pain as a needle slid into my left hip, through the skin, through the muscle and into the hip socket, into the center of the bone. But more than that, I felt the pain deep in my stomach, and beyond that, in the very spirit of my stomach. I felt the needle bite into me, heard the impossibly loud hiss of the hypodermic syringe as it sucked out pieces of my body, sucked out the blood, sucked out fluid ounces of my soul, sucked out antibodies, sucked out pieces of all of my stories, sucked out marrow, and sucked out pieces of my vocabulary. I knew that certain words were being taken from me.

I cried out in surprise and pain, and my cries sounded like tiny prayers.