3/X

There is a knock at the cell door. The pilot startles awake from his disoriented state and assesses the figure in the door frame. A red-headed young man, wide-eyed and wearing a medic’s badge, carrying a bowl. A wave of nausea hits the pilot instantly, splashing against his ribs and tightening his throat. He doesn’t want to know what’s in the bowl, doesn’t want this fucking guy even an inch closer than he is now.
”You must eat.” The medic says, hesitant to step closer.
”What?” the pilot groans, wishing he could fall back to the starless night of his dehydrated hibernation.
”The Russian says you must eat”, the medic repeats, almost shyly, and steps closer to the pilot, looking at closely his every move like he was a feral animal.
”Schnell, it’s getting cold. Otherwise the Russian will make you”, the medic half-whispers. The idea of eating the thing cold, whatever it is, makes the pilot want to gag. And the thought of a feeding tube…
”Let me go then.”
The medic shakes his head, biting his lip, and takes a spoon from his pocket.
”The Russian says we can’t let you go. Come on, otherwise...”
The pilot squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to look at the bowl and it’s contents…
A vaguely familiar smell comes through. A food smell, cozy and warm.
”How soon will I start bleeding from both ends, huh? Or is it ’truth serum’? Your ’truth serum’ ain’t worth shit, Yankee.”
”It’s just porridge, si… I mean, just eat, for God’s sake! Had it myself, it ain’t half bad!”  There is a film of sweat on the medic’s brow. He’s clearly equally terrified of the captive and the potential telling off by his supervisors. He starts spooning the porridge like a haywire machine, hands shaking and a determined grimace plastered on his face. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even to taunt the pilot. He completes the task in a hurry and scurries away.

When the medic leaves, the pilot starts realizing just how badly he needs his fix. He’s certainly not hungry now, and can easily do a good while longer without more to drink… But damn, how he needs something to take the sharp, painful edge off from everything. He wishes there was something in the bowl, even poison.
Echoes from the corridor keep hitting him like a wall, a painful flash of light from his skull and down his spine. The closed-off space around him, like he was buried alive, light years away from the sky and air and freedom.
He doesn’t want to submit to it, but the black void, a feral panic, starts swelling up in his gut. He wants to scream and tear himself free, wants to claw out his wrists… Anything, to make it stop. Anything to return, get back to the blissful non-existence where there is no pain and no light, except the distant gleam of far-away stars.
But there is no way out.

”Feeling refreshed here, comrade?” There is a knowing smirk on the Russian’s face.
The pilot’s eyes are red and sore. Dry, dirty streaks run down his pale cheeks, and he’s bitten his lips bloody. He doesn’t say anything, just breathes raggedly and waits. The Russian has brought another chair, and takes a seat in it himself. He sits comfortably, adjusting his leg braces slightly, and lights a cigarette. The sting makes the pilot’s eyes water, not from the smoke but from pure craving. A group of American soldiers has taken a position at the edge of the room,. Perhaps to gather information, or perhaps just to enjoy his torment.
The Russian leans closer and blows a puff of smoke against the pilot’s face. He smiles softly, eyes half-lidded, and lifts the cigarette close to the pilot’s face.
”Would you like a smoke, comrade? Belomorkanal too, fresh from the Motherland, not some tea leaves rolled into a Bible page.”
The pilot stares at the cigarette, captivated by the perfect, burning circle. He wonders, distantly, what’s going to happen next. If he refuses, will his captor light another one, and then another, and keep smoking there and blow smoke into his eyes until they fill up with tears? If he says he wants one, will the Russian put it out with his face? Bury the burning ring against his iris and press down until his vision is just a landscape of white pain forever? The Americans are shuffling around uneasily, impatient to put out their cigarettes too, no doubt. Breath is caught in his throat, he can’t answer.
”Ah… You don’t smoke, comrade. Such a fine, Aryan young man you are. Should have guessed...” The Russian slips the cigarette back between his lips and reaches out a finger to run it along the pilot’s jawline.
”You must be quite a hero back home? When the war’s over, you’ll get a beautiful house up the street, huh? An upstanding home for an upstanding citizen. Tell me, comrade… Do you have a bride, waiting for you back at home? Standing by the mailbox every day, perfect blue Aryan eyes glistening with hope and tears? And how about the children? The perfect, cream-white babies with light blue eyes, like yours?Do you think the state sends them to the best schools, to become scientists and officers? Have you thought about that, comrade?”
The pilot feels a cool, black terror filling his stomach. Something terrible is about to happen, he knows it. His heart starts to race, he can not think, just act. He throws himself forward and the chair tilts; just to yank violently back in it’s restrains, whipping his neck back painfully.
”Now, now...” The Russian gets up slowly, grabbing his cane to come stand next to the pilot, very close.
”We don’t want you to get hurt, comrade. What if the rope gave out? What if you cut the blood flow to your spinal cord for a moment too long? I could get you an iron long. Spoon-feed you soup. Track your answers from an alphabet board, letter by letter… But I have to sleep at night, and I’d have to let our Yankee friends keep an eye on you then. You think you could trust them with that?”
The pilot doesn’t want to react but he does, screams and trashes against his restraints. His mind goes blank, he can’t stop screaming, he wants the Russian to put his cigarette out in his eye. Anything, to make it stop.

”We’re going to play a little game, comrade. I ask you a question, and for each good answer, you’ll get a little prize. What do you say?”