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As I remember it, I was working on a new story that day.

"It’s my eighteenth day - I think – it’s hard to tell time in here.

"They take me out of my cell in the morning, and my heart is pounding fit to kill me. Will I be the observer today? Or the subject? The only good thing about these little ‘trips’ is that they take off the belt around my waist – the one they always buckle so tight I can scarcely breath, and to which my wrists are shackled. In back, of course, so I can’t hurt anybody when they come for me in the night. Like I, a slip of a girl – and worn out with little sleep and lousy food - could fend off three or four husky soldiers bent on having me. And with my ankles handcuffed to the sides of the “bed” to boot. Well, I don’t want to think about that. Maybe I have worse things to worry about.

"When they bring me into the room – I resist calling it an interrogation room, or a torture cell - the stench knots my stomach as usual. You’d think I would be used to it by now, but I’m not. It’s a vile mixture of vomit, shit, more or less dried blood and burnt flesh. Don’t know how they stand it, either. At least we’re equals in that.

"As usual, there are two of those heavy metal chairs sitting facing each other. I’m always first, so I can’t tell what the plan is. Again as usual, I fight like crazy as they force me down into one of the chairs. With my legs unchained I try and kick. Sometimes I get lucky, and hurt someone. Mostly I hurt my own toes. They’re bare, of course, like the rest of me.

"And let me say right here that, yes, they do take advantage of us. Not the least compunction about pushing us up against a wall so they can do a “manual inspection”. Or making us bend over one of the little pipe railings they have here and there, the four eyebolts in the floor with the old straps just waiting to restrain our ankles and wrists - so passing soldiers can unzip and use our raw holes. I haven’t gotten used to that, either, but I try to have a kind of out of body experience when it’s happening. The first time, I actually slapped the guy – just like I was back in high school! But being lashed down to your bed spread out on your back while guys do whatever the fuck they want to your pussy and breasts with cigarettes and straps and shock batons made it not seem worth it somehow.

"Oh, oh, today . . .

Right about there, the phone rang. My partner answered it, gave me one of those “it’s for me” waves and disappearing into the other room so as not to bother me. For a sadist, she’s really considerate sometimes.