The light floods her. Her circumstances are revealed for longer than a moment. She is bound to a chair, in a small dark cement room. Nothing is familiar except a few of her thoughts. Before her is a table, a shadow sits behind the light. Her thoughts reveal her resolved anger but are betrayed by her dislocated speech. Her voice has deserted her temporarily through her dry tongue and mouth. She hears him ruffle papers on the desk. Her instinct requires coldness to disguise her inner beauty, her inner softness. She cannot have compassion. She cannot show empathy or kindness to anything or anyone. Her eyes water in the bright light – mistaken for tears.
She hears a long snort followed by a sniff. She hears it all again, a long snort followed by a sniff. Programmed to an addiction. She releases her compassion. Her bicep reacts to the fear. She clenches her jaw.
Thoughts return. Frank Zappa … snow ... Zulu Jew … Victims of Genocide Museum … Ivan … Hall Five ... The truck ... Oh my God.
“What do you want?”
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