The Occupation of Emerald City: The Worker Read Online Free PDF Page A

I scream, leaning forward. I jam my thumb into my
right pectoral muscle. “All I care about it me. Me . I don’t care about all of that ‘Unity’ bullshit my government
talks about. I don’t care about my government and I don’t care about your government. I don’t care why you’re here. All I care about is getting back to my life .”
    The interrogator smiles. I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be
friendly or condescending. He probably doesn’t know, either. He’s probably just
a grunt, thrown into this position as a punishment. He just does what he’s
told.
    “There’s a retarded guy in the cell next to me,” I say. “I
don’t suppose that matters to you.”
    “Are you a terrorist?” he asks.
    “No.” What is this? This guy acts like he was just pulled out
of formation. Go do a little interrogation for fun, his superior must have
said. He probably doesn’t even understand me beyond “Yes” and “No.” I lean
forward to look at the paper in front of him. It’s in a different language, but
it looks like a numbered script. He’s probably never done this before. It all
makes me angry. Frustrated. I want my pills.
    He watches me, then glances down at the sheet. Looking for
his place. A prompt.
    “You are a member of the Green Party.”
    “Yes.” No. That can’t be what this is about. “Everyone who
works for the government is. It’s a requirement. I’m not … I mean, I don’t
participate in party rallies or anything like that.”
    “You are a member, though?” he asks, thin eyebrows raised.
    “We all are,” I say. “So is every school teacher. So is every
garbage collector. You have to be a
member of the party to take a government job. It doesn’t mean anything.”
    “If you are innocent, you will not confess.” He motions to
the guards and they grab me violently under each arm, throwing me onto the
floor. They replace the hood and cuffs.
    “ I didn’t do anything !”
I scream through the fabric. They drag me out of the room, pulling me and this
time I’m struggling because there’s something entirely different about their
manners—their grip is tighter, their pull stronger. The guards start
speaking to me and they don’t speak my language but the very inflection of
their words is enough to send adrenaline through my body. My anxiety begins
fueling my imagination and all I can picture are firing squads and nooses and
other things I’ve seen in movies.
    I hear a door open and they push me into a cool room and lift
my body up onto a slab of ice-cold sheet metal that gives under my weight. I
struggle harder now, unsure of what’s happening and yet sure I would rather see
the pain coming than be subjected to this pitch-black nightmare where my mind
simply adds a picture of a needle or knife to every sound—clink, pop,
click—my ears pick up. The invisible soldiers bind my arms and legs with
thick leather and pull off the hood. They pull a wet strap across my forehead,
then place a thick wet rag over my mouth and nose.
    My tongue sops up the stale water in the rag. It tastes like
iron. I can’t move my head. All I can see is the concrete ceiling and a single
bare halogen bulb. My tongue can’t push the rag away from my mouth. Air seeps
in through the fabric. Tears burn my eyes.
    Water begins to filter through, dripping slowly into my
nostrils. I hold my breath until my lungs scream for oxygen, forcing my mouth
open as wide as it can get. The cold water seeps through the cloth, down my
throat. Water fills my lungs, causing my throat to close and open. My limbs
shake against the leather, chafing my skin.
    The water continues. I gag, convulse, feeling my heart beating
inside my ears. This is the end. This has to be death.
    The water trickles to a stop and the strap on my forehead
loosens. Tears have blurred my vision but I can see the vague outline of a
soldier standing over me. He pulls away the cloth and applies strong pressure
to my stomach, just below the ribcage, forcing the