Tun tries to remember this is someone who is fastidiously disciplined. Someone who in a former life taught literature, or maybe law, or the literature of law. In any case, a man of honed intelligence, not at all a barbarian.
“Mostly blank,” the man continues monotonously. “You’ve left most of these pages blank. You haven’t told us the truth we already know.”
There is something strange about the phrasing. Every word sounds like a trap. If you already know, why ask? He dares not voice his rebellion. Instead, he focuses on a black revolutionary cap hanging from a loose nail in the wall above the man’s head. A still object. Weightless, benign. It exerts no harm, even if hurled with force. To the far right, in the periphery of his vision, hover familiar objects. A cow’s rope, frayed from overuse. Steel cables of varied length and diameter. Electric cords with exposed copper wires, metal clamps. A clear plastic bag, soiled with condensation and spit. A pair of pliers. All in a tidy row, each tool on its own hook, secure in its purpose. Beneath, a phrase drawn in charcoal. Even without turning his head, Tun knows what it says—You must not scream under any circumstance. The rule is scrawled across the wall of every such room. Beaten into him.
“Is there nothing more you can write, Comrade? Nothing more you want to tell us?”
My hands . . . Just as he thinks this, Tun feels the metal band coming off one wrist; his arms swiftly pulled back behind the chair, manacles clanging, banging against wood; then his hands bound once more. They are quick, unlocking and locking him in mere seconds, the two guard dogs. No, guards. Boys. They are boys. Humans like him. He has to believe this. They’re capable of reason. If not that, then at least pity. Some part of them must pity him. One bends down now and straps his already shackled legs to the chair. Fear makes Tun delirious. So he hopes, as he always does, that this time will be different. Hope is his body’s last defense before the inevitable final defeat, which will come at the hour they alone decide. Along with the written rules are the unwritten ones—You must not die under torture. You will suffer as long as we deem necessary. If you die, then another will suffer on your behalf.
“Let us be like brothers,” his host susurrates. “With no secrets between us. You confess, and I write it down. Will this be easier, less painful?”
His host. This too, Tun must believe. That the man facing him is capable of human decency. A person who invites you into his space and offers you tea cannot be completely dispossessed of kindness. Tun’s mind splits in two, one half arguing with the other. There must be a sliver of humanity one can appeal to. Let us be like brothers . . . Yes, brothers. Tun tries to nod but pain shoots from the base of his neck to the top of his skull. He remembers the club that caused it. He desperately wants to please his host—to cooperate, as they say. But silence fills his throat. Fear mocks him, laughing. You think you can overcome me?
Suddenly a current of air rises, and with it the man in front of him, palms slamming the desk, tea tray rattling—“Talk!” The black cap drops to the floor behind him, the nail clattering briefly across the tile floor, revealing a fractured hole in the plaster of the wall. Tun feels like that hole, barely visible yet thoroughly worn. His body an orifice of pain.
When all is still again, the chief interrogator says, returning to his practiced monotony, “Let’s begin with a simple question.” He takes another sip of tea, swooshing it in his mouth as if ridding his tongue of some bad taste before swallowing. “What is today’s date, Comrade?”
He cannot remember. The year, yes—1978, as the chief interrogator announced earlier—but today’s date he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Another tide of panic seizes him, and he can only recall that he was in a similar room earlier—this morning, yesterday, the day before, the whole of this week? Round it goes, the same questioning, the same illogic. You’re here because you’re guilty, you’re guilty because you’re here. He feels a sudden tightening around his ankles and recognizes it now. Not ants. Wires attached to him. Somewhere in the room, he knows, is a car battery. His torso jerks involuntarily. The residual shudder of electricity from an earlier session. The body remembers, even as the mind makes no sense. What is today’s date, Comrade? Time ceases in hell. Only the cycle of torture. His nerves brace, his throat clamps shut. You must not scream under any circumstance. A jolt of electricity rattles his core, splitting him in half. Fire surges through his blood and all he wants is water. Water, please. Water. Just a drop on his tongue. Yes, the tea, the tea. Just a sip. A brief clarity—they put the tea in his direct vision yet out of his reach, knowing this is what he will want after the jolt. The liquid is meant to torment him. Everything can be a tool. Confess your crimes, and you can go back to your cell! CONFESS! Tun’s head explodes. He cannot separate thoughts from speech, his own howling from the scream of his tormentors, from the roar of flames scourging his insides. Words escape his throat, burning as they go, splintering into myriad bright points, needles and spears. Lightning rods. Another jolt. Then another. His world blackens.
*
Back in his cell, Tun remembers the date. It was something he ought to have easily recalled. They’d told him earlier, at the predawn interrogation, during which he’d signed and dated his confession. Did he not remember? No. He couldn’t utter even this single response, let alone offer more. Panic took precedence, and pain became his sole consciousness. So they accused him once again of deliberately withholding information. Undoubtedly then, he would conceal more sensitive matters, such as plots to overthrow the Organization and countless other treasons. You’ve betrayed the party. If you deny it, then you’re claiming the party is wrong, and this in itself is treason. No matter what you say, you are guilty, you stinking corpse! There’s no escaping it!
The last bit is the only truth they speak. He cannot escape. The certainty of it hit him again when he woke and realized he did not die as he’d hoped. Death is the only way out of Slak Daek, the only mercy granted, if any, and the party alone decides when it will come. They will keep him alive for as long as they need him to confirm their suspicions, give proof to their fears, feed their paranoia. There’s always another name, another traitor he can point them to. Another life he can exchange for one more gulp of air. But he does not want to live. There is no reason to. She is gone. His anchor and compass. His life’s purpose.