How much can a man take before he breaks? Is it measured by how many minutes, hours, days, or years he lives in hell? Is it one too many punches, kicks, or broken bones because he refuses to give in?
I wish I knew. As my head whips to the side when a pair of knuckles slam into my cheek again, I wish I knew the exact moment all of this will finally come to an end so I can count down the seconds and know exactly how much longer I need to hang on. Five years, two weeks, four days, and nine hours of the same thing, day after day, and I’m ready for it to be over. But I won’t give in. I won’t give them what they want even as the punches turn into kicks and the kicks turn into puddles of blood soaking into the dirt floor around me. Marines never give up.
Ooh Rah!
They scream at me in a rapid-fire foreign language. I’ve learned just enough in my years here to understand how much they still hate me, my country, and my refusal to give them what they ask for. Just like I’ve done for 1,843 days, I close my eyes and pretend like I’m not getting the shit kicked out of me. I think of her smile, her laugh, the smell of her skin, and her gentle touch. The punches and the kicks morph into soft hands sliding over my chest and warm palms pressed against either side of my face. The metallic scent of my own blood dripping down my face turns into the sweet, crisp smell of fresh peaches and my mouth waters, wishing I could taste her skin one last time.
I wonder if she’d touch me with the same boldness now that scars disfigure my skin. I wonder if she’d love me the same way when she saw how twisted and confused my mind has become just so I can make it through another day.
I wonder if she still thinks of me as much as I do her.
I wonder if she knows she’s the only reason I’m still breathing, still fighting, and still holding on.
Blood pools in my mouth and I spit it into the dirt, wishing the dry, packed earth would swallow me up just like it does with the bodily fluids that drip down off my skin.
“Give us names and this will stop. You will live like king and not like dog.”
My torturer speaks in broken English, giving his battered fists a break and squatting down to stick his face close to mine. For five years, they’ve been under the impression I’m some high-ranking military official and can give them the names of top brass with checkered pasts they can extort for their own agenda in this war. I gave up trying to make them understand after the first year. They’ll never understand and they’ll never care. At this point, it’s just a game to them anyway. They don’t care about the names; they just care about having another American under their thumb to torture for sport.
“How about we kill your friend instead? Will that make you talk?”
My eyes flicker to the man shackled to the wall a few feet away from me, and the sorry state of his appearance makes me sick to my stomach. He’s my brother. My best friend. Everything dead inside me roars to life and my nostrils flare with pent-up rage. I want to make these people pay for what they’ve done to him. Since we haven’t seen a mirror in over five years, I’m guessing he probably feels the same way when he looks at me. Once, the two strongest Marines in our unit, now just shadows of the men we used to be. Bones and ribs sticking out where well-defined muscles used to be, tattered and dirty rags covering our bodies instead of crisp and clean camo pants and T-shirts, long mangy hair and beards that haven’t seen a bar of soap or water in years replacing our close-cropped military haircuts and clean-shaven faces.
Through the mop of dirty hair that hangs down over his face, I see him narrow one blue eye at me in warning, the second one swollen shut from yesterday’s beating.
Rylan Edwards. My best friend since high school.
We grew up together, joined the Marines together, and went off to fight a war together. It seems only fitting that we’ll die together. God only knows what happened to the other men in our unit that were captured along with us. Rylan and I have heard their screams over the years, listened to their shouts of pain, just like I’m sure they’ve listened to ours. We haven’t heard them in a while, which is almost worse. It could mean they’re no longer with us, fighting to stay alive. The quietness just gives you too much time to think about the fact that soon we’ll be silenced as well.
“Don’t do it, man. Don’t you fucking do it,” he mumbles angrily around a split lip, the movement of his mouth reopening the scab and letting a trail of blood drip down into his beard. “I can take whatever these fuckers dish out.”
I want to tell him to shut the hell up. His words are only going to piss these assholes off, but a part of me wants to tell him to keep going. Don’t fucking give up on me and don’t let them win. I can’t do this alone. I can’t survive this alone. If Rylan is still fighting for our freedom, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let go and give up.
The piece of scum squatting next to me nods his head in Rylan’s direction, the guard standing closest to him slamming his fist into Rylan’s cheek, whipping his head back against the wall.
Rylan laughs, like the smart-ass that he is. He laughs loudly from deep in his gut after each punch the little shit levels him with.
“Is that all you got, asshole?” he laughs again, shooting me another look of warning, letting me know he’s fine.
He can handle it. He’s not giving in. He’s not giving up.
How much can a man take before he breaks? When do the dreams stop giving him comfort and he has to accept that he’ll never see her again, touch her again or hear her say “I love you” again?
With my knees curled up to my chest and my arms wrapped around my waist to protect my broken ribs from any more abuse, I look into our captor’s dark eyes and nod when a particularly nasty punch across the room sends one of Rylan’s teeth sailing through the air to land in the dirt right by my face. I’ve watched them beat the shit out of my best friend for years, and eventually the relentless fists to his face and boots to his stomach turned me numb. But something about this moment shakes me to the core. The determination on Rylan’s face, and the pride I feel for him that he refuses to give in, wakes me the fuck up, and one way or another, it ends now.
The monster smiles at me for the first time in five years. I return his smile with my cracked and bloody lips, knowing it’s the first and last time.
I feel Rylan’s eyes on me. I feel his anger and his disappointment from across the room and ignore his shouts to me in between the thwacks of a fist connecting with his face.
Pulling my head back from the close proximity of the animal in front of me, I quickly jerk it forward and spit a mouthful of bloody saliva into his face, wanting to throw my hands up and cheer, feeling victorious that I finally found my balls and remembered how to use them.
I picture her smile and I imagine her laugh as he yanks a dirty rag from his pocket and wipes the blood and spit from his face. I hear the soft cadence of her voice, promising to love me forever when he shouts furiously in his own language. I feel her arms wrapped around my waist when, seconds later, two of his men race into the small room, grab me under my arms, and drag me across the dirt floor.
Shouting, the pounding of footsteps and gunfire sound from outside the room, and I wonder just how many people they need to bring in here to kill two weak men who can barely move.
My hands are quickly shackled to a wall above my head right next to Rylan, my broken body groaning in protest. No matter what happens next, I will not give in. I was born a Marine and I will die a Marine.
“Ooh Rah,” we both whisper to each other, not breaking eye contact as a loud explosion shakes the walls, rattles our chests, and rains dirt and rocks down on us from the ceiling.
How much can a man take before he breaks?
How much can a man handle before he forgets all the good things and only has regrets filling his head?
I never should have left you. I’ll never stop loving you, even if you hate me for walking away.
Closing my eyes to the chaos around us and waiting for them to finally end this once and for all, I let my mind take me away to warm summer nights, the smell of peaches and a woman who loved me more than I ever deserved. I remember how it felt to be loved, wholly and truly loved. I fill my head with thoughts of her, wanting to die with a smile on my face instead of shame in my heart. My cracked and bloody lips tip up at the corners and I hold on tightly to all the good things, refusing to give them up, and refusing to let them go.