Tahereh Mafi - Destroy Me

Ive been shot.

And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had imagined.

My skin is cold and clammy; Im making a herculean effort to breathe. Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention.

The chaos is unbearable.

Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I want their hands surgically removed. They keep shouting Sir! as if theyre still waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without my instruction. The realization exhausts me.

Sir, can you hear me? Another cry. But this time, a voice I dont detest.

Sir, please, can you hear me

Ive been shot, Delalieu, I manage to say. I open my eyes. Look into his watery ones. I havent gone deaf.

All at once the noise disappears. The soldiers shut up. Delalieu looks at me. Worried.

I sigh.

Take me back, I tell him, shifting, just a little. The world tilts and steadies all at once. Alert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. In the meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound. The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.

Delalieu says nothing for just a moment too long.

Good to see youre all right, sir. His voice is a nervous, shaky thing. Good to see youre all right.

That was an order, Lieutenant.

Of course, he says quickly, head bowed. Certainly, sir. How should I direct the soldiers?

Find her, I tell him. Its getting harder for me to speak. I take a small breath and run a shaky hand across my forehead. Im sweating in an excessive way that isnt lost on me.

Yes, sir. He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm.

One last thing.

Sir?

Kent, I say, my voice uneven now. Make sure they keep him alive for me.

Delalieu looks up, his eyes wide. Private Adam Kent, sir?

Yes. I hold his gaze. I want to deal with him myself.

Delalieu is standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand.

His is my second visit this morning. The first was from my medics, who confirmed that the surgery went well. They said that as long as I stay in bed this week, the new drugs theyve given me should accelerate my healing process. They also said that I should be fit to resume daily activities fairly soon, but Ill be required to wear a sling for at least a month.

I told them it was an interesting theory.

My slacks, Delalieu. Im sitting up, trying to steady my head against the nausea of these new drugs. My right arm is essentially useless to me now.

I look up. Delalieu is staring at me, unblinking, Adams apple bobbing in his throat.

I stifle a sigh.

What is it? I use my left arm to steady myself against the mattress and force myself upright. It takes every ounce of energy I have left, and Im clinging to the bed frame. I wave away Delalieus effort to help; I close my eyes against the pain and dizziness. Tell me whats happened, I say to him.

Theres no point in prolonging bad news.

His voice breaks twice when he says, Private Adam Kent has escaped, sir.

My eyes flash a bright, dizzying white behind my eyelids.

I take a deep breath and attempt to run my good hand through my hair. Its thick and dry and caked with what must be dirt mixed with my own blood. Im tempted to punch my remaining fist through the wall.

Instead I take a moment to collect myself.

Im suddenly too aware of everything in the air around me, the scents and small noises and footsteps outside my door. I hate these rough cotton pants theyve put me in. I hate that Im not wearing socks. I want to shower. I want to change.

I want to put a bullet through Adam Kents spine.

Leads, I demand. I move toward my bathroom and wince against the cold air as it hits my skin;

Im still without a shirt. Trying to remain calm. Tell me you have not brought me this information without leads.

My mind is a warehouse of carefully organized human emotions. I can almost see my brain as it functions, filing thoughts and images away. I lock away the things that do not serve me. I focus only on what needs to be done: the basic components of survival and the myriad things I must manage throughout the day.

Of course, Delalieu says. The fear in his voice stings me a little; I dismiss it. Yes, sir, he says, we do think we know where he mightve goneand we have reason to believe that Private Kent and theand the girlwell, with Private Kishimoto having run off as wellwe have reason to believe that they are all together, sir.

The drawers in my mind are rattling to break open. Memories. Theories. Whispers and sensations.

I shove them off a cliff.

Of course you do. I shake my head. Regret it. Close my eyes against the sudden unsteadiness. Do not give me information Ive already deduced for myself, I manage to say. I want something concrete. Give me a solid lead, Lieutenant, or leave me until you have one.

A car, he says quickly. A car was reported stolen, sir, and we were able to track it to an unidentified location, but then it disappeared off the map. Its as if it ceased to exist, sir.

I look up. Give him my full attention.

We followed the tracks it left in our radar, he says, speaking more calmly now, and they led us to a stretch of isolated, barren land. But weve scoured the area and found nothing.

This is something, at least. I rub the back of my neck, fighting the weakness I feel deep in my bones. I will meet you in the L Room in one hour.

But sir, he says, eyes trained on my arm, youll need assistancetheres a processyoull require a convalescent aide

You are dismissed.

He hesitates.

Then, Yes, sir.

I manage to bathe without losing consciousness.

It was more of a sponge bath, but I feel better nonetheless. I have an extremely low threshold for disorder; it offends my very being. I shower regularly. I eat six small meals a day. I dedicate two hours of each day to training and physical exercise. And I detest being barefoot.

Now, I find myself standing naked, hungry, tired, and barefoot in my closet. This is not ideal.

My closet is separated into various sections. Shirts, ties, slacks, blazers, and boots. Socks, gloves, scarves, and coats. Everything is arranged according to color, then shades within each color. Every article of clothing it contains is meticulously chosen and custom made to fit the exact measurements of my body. I dont feel like myself until Im fully dressed; its part of who I am and how I begin my day.

Now I havent the faintest idea how Im supposed to dress myself.

My hand shakes as I reach for the little blue bottle I was given this morning. I place two of the square-shaped pills on my tongue and allow them to dissolve. Im not sure what they do; I only know they help replenish the blood Ive lost. So I lean against the wall until my head clears and I feel stronger on my feet.

This, such an ordinary task. It wasnt an obstacle I was anticipating.

I put socks on first; a simple pleasure that requires more effort than shooting a man. Briefly, I wonder what the medics mustve done with my clothes. The clothes, I tell myself, only the clothes;

Im focusing only on the clothes from that day. Nothing else. No other details.

Boots. Socks. Slacks. Sweater. My military jacket with its many buttons.

The many buttons she ripped open.

Its a small reminder, but its enough to spear me.

I try to fight it off but it lingers, and the more I try to ignore the memory, it multiplies into a monster that can no longer be contained. I dont even realize Ive fallen against the wall until I feel the cold climbing up my skin; Im breathing too hard and squeezing my eyes shut against the sudden wash of mortification.