Blair shut his eyes just before the machete reached his hand. He waited for the pain. Waited for his life to change forever. It was only a matter of a second. Perhaps not even that.
He opened his eyes.
The look on Yassin’s face embarrassed him. It was a bluff. The son of a bitch wanted to see him squirm.
Yassin set the machete aside. “Unfortunately, my friend,” he said, “I need you in one piece. We still have our endgame to play out. But—”
The punch was unexpected. It caught Blair just below his heart.
“Your little act of rebellion cannot go unpunished,” Yassin stated matter-of-factly.
Blair couldn’t breathe. He gulped for air.
“What’s the matter?” Yassin questioned with mock concern. “Did I hurt you?”
Blair glared at him, doubting he’d ever hated anyone as much.
And Yassin came at him again, his punches thrown systematically, pummeling Blair’s chest and stomach.
Blair tried telling himself it was mind over matter.
“Had enough?” Yassin taunted.
The hurt was unlike anything he’d experienced. It seemed to swell without release. Battered, he doubted whether he could take much more.
Yassin’s fists were relentless.
The last thing Blair remembered was crying out.
His dream came that night.
His fingers had not only been severed but gangrene had set in. He heard the doctors discussing his case.
“Amputate?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Within the hour.”
“Is there any other way?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The scene was so real, Blair shuddered.
It took a full day before he could get out of bed. He pushed the covers aside and sat up. He felt as if he had a fever. Reluctantly, he allowed his gaze to drop. It was a relief to see that his fingers were still attached.
He coughed; blood trickled down his chin.
Blair stood and slowly made his way to the bathroom. Once again, there was blood in his urine. A few of the burn marks on his testicles had formed scabs and were sensitive to the touch.
Getting dressed in the same shirt and pair of jeans, he could smell the sweat in his clothes. There was a gallabiya hanging in the bathroom, but the Arab robe was the last thing he’d wear.
Being honest with himself, Blair understood that he was an ordinary Joe, ill-equipped both mentally and physically. Ordinary simply wasn’t good enough in his situation. He had no illusions. He felt like a loser. And he was getting a loser’s comeuppance.
His insides burned from the physical beating he’d taken as he began to pace the room. His eyes went to the oversized light fixture. Something clicked but he didn’t know why. He continued to pace. Then he noticed the bed sheet. And he realized how easy it would be to tie a noose.
Those who wanted to cast stones could do so. His daughter was too important for him to decide against her, twenty-five or even fifty thousand strangers, as the case may be, not withstanding.
It seemed so logical. Why choose at all if a choice could be shunned? He was dead anyway. Hastening this fact by a few weeks made perfect sense. If he waited and Yassin didn’t kill him, his conscience would.