I struggle, pull away, and try to kick him. He darts out of reach and then slaps me across the face, hard enough that stars burst across my eyes and my ears ring.
I smell his breath as he thrusts his face close to mine. "Listen, girl. It is a fair trade. You need to eat, and nothing is free."
"I had one bite," I whisper. "Please, let me go."
Malik tugs my ripped hijab from my head and tosses it to the ground, pulling hair loose in the process, but I barely feel it. "I will make you a deal. If you cooperate quietly, I will give you more food, and some money. It has been weeks since I have had a woman, and you are very pretty. I am feeling generous. If you keep struggling, I might be forced to hurt you, and I do not want to do that. Not to such a pretty little face like yours."
Everything in me shrinks away from him, but my need for food, my need to survive moves my mouth. "Food? And money?"
He laughs. "That got your attention."
He does not let go of me, but pushes me to the blankets. I stumble and fall to my back, scramble away from him, but he kneels near the foot end of the blankets to rummage in the box. He pulls out several cans of food, a packet of jerked meat, and a bottle of liquor. He sets these things on the floor, and then reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wad of money, peels off a few bills, and adds it to the pile.
"There. I think that is more than generous." Malik grins at me, and I realize he is drunk.
I cower against the wall, staring at the food and the money, well aware that what he is offering will keep me alive for at least a month, if I'm careful. But what he is suggesting I do to get it...I cannot. I just cannot. My knees tighten, and my arms cross over my chest.
"I...I do not—" my voice cracks.
I need the food, but I do not know how to agree. Fear boils through me, disgust at the sweat-stained armpits of his shirt, the scraggly beard on his chin, the hard brown eyes, the acne scars on his forehead.
"It will be over quick, girl."
He moves to kneel over me, pushes my dress up over my hips with rough hands. He unbuttons the front, and my heart hammers as he bares my br**sts, my privates. My eyes are closed, my body trembling. My stomach growls, gnaws, fueling my desperation. Hard fingers claw at my br**sts, and I whimper. Hard fingers rip away my thin cotton panties, and dig into my soft privates. I cry out loud, but he ignores me.
I try to pull away, but he holds me in place with a hand on my shoulder. A belt jingles, and that sound becomes seared into my soul. A zipper goes zzzhrip, and then his weight is above me. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, try to close my knees, but he is already between my legs and something hard is pressing against my privates. I whimper again, and then something pinches, sharp and painful, and then pops.
I weep quietly for my virginity.
It is over quickly, and his weight is gone. Something hot and wet is on my leg. A piece of cloth is dropped onto my chest, and then I cannot feel his presence or smell him. I open my eyes, and see that I am alone.
Allah, what have I done?
I have not prayed to Allah in a very long time, and I do not know why I do so now.
I take the rag and wipe myself. There is thick, sticky white fluid dripping down my thighs, mixed with blood. I nearly vomit but have nothing in my stomach to bring up, so I only dry-heave and taste acid. I take the cans and wrap them in my hijab. The money I clutch in my damp palm.
I run home. I do not cry until I am in my bed. I bathe in the morning, but do not feel clean, even after scrubbing until my skin is raw. I look at the wealth of food, the money that can feed me, and I feel a bit better. It was awful, but it kept me alive.
I eat, and push away my self-loathing, my disgust, my worry for what I will do when this is gone.
TWO
HUNTER
Operation Iraqi Freedom; Des Moines, Iowa, 2003
The bar is dim and blurry and spinning as I finish my beer. I've lost count by now. Ten? Twelve? There might have been a few shots in there, too. It doesn't matter. Derek is next to me, perched on the stool with one foot on the scratched wood floor, flirting with a tall brown-haired girl with huge round br**sts. He's close to scoring, I'm pretty sure. He's been working this girl for over an hour, playing up his best war stories from the last tour. We've been back for a month, and we're not due to ship back to Iraq for another month, but Derek has gotten plenty of mileage out of his experiences. And by mileage, I mean ass.
This girl, for instance, is hanging off his every word, leaning closer and closer to him, arching her back to make her already-impressive rack even bigger. She's stroking his knee absently, and he's pretending not to notice, all the while inching his own hand up her knee toward her thigh, which is bare almost to her hip bones in the little khaki shorts she's wearing.
I wish him well. I've got my own piece of heaven waiting at home...well, her home. It's where I've been staying since I got back Stateside. Lani Cutler has been my girlfriend since my sophomore year of high school, and she waited for me through Basic, gave me somewhere to stay until I shipped out, and then gave me one hell of a warrior's send-off...for three days straight. And now I'm back and she's here still, giving me a warrior's welcome and a warm bed. I don't know what else it is between us, exactly, which is part of the reason I've tied one on tonight. Things are different, difficult, and confused.
I keep trying to start the conversation with her, but she always avoids it.
I was gone for over a year, and I know better than to ask what—or who—she did while I was gone, since I never demanded she wait for me. She's a good girl, sweet, beautiful, smart, from a good family. Too good for the likes of me, but she doesn't seem to know that. She claims to love me, and I believe her. I've been thinking of asking her to marry me, to make sure I've always got someone to come home to, permanently. I love her, I think. I think about her when I'm gone, miss her. I can see us together.
I've even bought the ring. Little thing, not real expensive, but it's something.
But I have doubts.
At some point, my beer disappears and is replaced by a glass of water with four wedges of lemon. A rocks glass full of pretzel nuggets is in front of me, and suddenly, nothing has ever tasted so good as those yeasty little balls of crunchy goodness.
Derek laughs at something the girl—whom I’ve named The Rack—says and stands up. "We're gonna get out of here, Hunt. You good?"
I nod. "Yep. ’M good. Not a far walk from here."
Derek frowns. "Sure you're in any kind of condition to walk, bro? You look three sheets to the wind."
I shrug. "Maybe two sheets. But I'm good.”