Chapter 12 - Ellie
I wake up to the sun streaming through the blinds. I enjoy the blissful second of peace before the reality of my situation comes crashing down around me. I look around the room and wonder how I’ve ended up here.
This room is exactly like everything else in this country: on the surface it seems nice, perfect, pristine, but the reality is much darker.
This is my prison.
Mike and I arrived in Pyongyang three weeks ago today and that was the beginning of the unravelling. We met our Korean guide and were toured around to various monuments and statues and took the required photos, all the while both of us were waiting for the third day, when we would have one short hour to see the nuclear warheads hangar.
The day arrived and our guide showed up to the hotel alone. He drove us out to another monument of Kim Jong-un, but instead of taking us back to the hotel he led us down a road to a normal-looking building. From the outside it looked like a regular apartment block, but the minute we stepped in it was like stepping into another world. He opened a crate and I took photos of old, dust-covered bombs. Nuclear symbols were stamped on each one. He swept his arm around the room and I snapped photo after photo, realising with horror the scale of their nuclear arsenal.
“This is only one storage facility,” he said. There are many of them. He handed me a cryptic map with red dots all over the city. It was disguised to look like a tourist map. I snapped a picture of the map and then handed it back to our guide before heading back to the car. Mike nodded to me, and as we had discussed I popped the memory card out of my camera and slipped it into a small pocket in the neckline of my shirt, sewn exactly for that purpose. I replaced the memory card with a fresh one in the camera.
It wasn’t a second too soon. Before we opened the car doors, an armed guard approached. He took Mike away and I was escorted back to the hotel. I don’t know what happened to our guide.
Not knowing is the worst part.
I was given no explanation, no reasons, no charges have been filed, I haven’t been convicted of anything. Nothing. Complete, total darkness. I don’t know what happened to Mike, what they know, what they don’t know. They tell me nothing. I remember the way my heart was beating in my chest that day and the days that followed. The way the photos stored in my shirt seemed to burn against my skin.
I think - I hope - that they have no proof, no documents, nothing to tie us to anything incriminating. They didn’t see us in the building, and they never found the memory card. But they know we weren’t here for a profile on Kim Jong-un. They must have known from the start.
For the past two weeks I’ve been separated from Mike. They won’t let me out of this room. They feed me, give me water, drinks, tea. I can even choose my meals off a menu. If it wasn’t for the locked door and armed guards everywhere, I could just be on vacation, staying in a nice hotel room. But I can’t leave. I can’t call my family, I can’t contact Mike. They’ve taken my passport.
I’m a prisoner.
I sit up in bed and blink back the tears. I’ve been crying enough in the past weeks. I flick the sheets back and swing my legs over the bed, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hands. I get up and look out the window. It’s a nice day outside with clear blue skies and a bright sun. I’ve studied the landscape constantly since I’ve been locked in here. It’ll be burned into my mind for the rest of my life, however long that lasts.
I scan the buildings out the window. The two abandoned husks of buildings on the left hand side frame the view ominously. I close my eyes and lean my forehead on the cool window, wishing I was somewhere else.
I wish I was back home, on my front porch on a warm summer evening. I wish I was standing there with Derek Hart, and he was looking at me deep in the eye, his face inches from mine with the air charged with ten years of tension between us.
I wish I hadn’t walked away.
If I’d kissed him that night, I could replay that memory right now over and over and at least I would have that to cling to. But now all I can do is imagine it. I try to remember his smell, the warm spicy musk, and the size of his body. I think about the way my own body yearned for his. I was almost itching for his hands on me.
I should have leaned in, tilted my chin up. I’d give anything to taste his lips right now, and feel his arms around me. He’d wrap them around my body and I’d be warm and safe. I’d be safe. I can almost - almost - feel it. It’s like a word that’s on the tip of my tongue or a song that I can’t quite remember. His touch is a distant memory that’s just out of reach.
I open my eyes and take a deep breath, ignoring the tear that falls down my cheek. There’s no use thinking like that. It only distracts me from my situation, only makes it more unbearable than it already is to be locked in this room.
I straighten myself up and turn towards the dresser. I reach for the shirt with the tiny pocket sewn into the neckline and feel for the memory card. It’s still there. Everything else was confiscated, but they never found the tiny card. I know I’m placing myself in absolute danger by keeping it but if I ever get out of here I want something to show for it.
I hear a knock on the door. Slowly, my head turns towards the sound. I’m not sure why my heart starts beating like this, why every sensation is heightened and why the seconds seem to drag on forever. I hear the lock on the door scrape open and watch as the doorknob turns. The door swings open.
“Hello, Miss Walters.”
A tall, graceful Korean man is framed by the doorway. His English has a slight accent to it and he bows his head slowly as he greets me. He’s wearing an army uniform. It’s perfectly pressed with a chest full of medals. His hair is slicked back and his sharp black eyes meet mine when he straightens himself up.
He steps into the room and is followed by a woman I recognise. The woman who brings me my meals. She’s carrying a long box. The man speaks.
“Our Supreme Leader will be honoured by your company this morning. Please,” he pauses. The woman walks in and places the box gently on the bed. He bows again and spins on his heels, walking down the hallway. Before I even think about moving, another man reaches in and pulls the door shut. The sound of the lock clicking runs straight through my heart.
I turn to the woman. “Hi, Jang-mi,” I say slowly.
As usual, she stays quiet. Her skin is perfectly smooth and pale and her black hair is pulled back into a low bun. She flicks the lid off the box and pulls out a long silk dress. The rich red fabric shimmers and flows over her arms as she lifts it out of the box and holds it up towards me. She nods once and looks at me. She points to the shower and I nod back.
There are no questions here, only orders.