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

water out of my lungs. My
first breath feels like Heaven on earth. The second one stings as it glides
down my enflamed esophagus.
    “Eleven seconds,” says the interrogator. I can’t see him but
somehow I know he’s standing in one of the corners, away from the overhead
light, enveloped by shadows.
    “Please,” I whisper. My heart won’t stop racing. Every
exhaled breath could be my last, and my entire body knows it. My legs shake
hard against the straps.
    “Not very impressive,” says another voice.
    “Please!” I scream at the soldier holding the wet cloth
beside me. “Please I’m not a terrorist I’m not a fucking killer I’m just a
fucking worker !”
    A gloved hand pushes my head back down, reattaching the leather
strap across my forehead. The soldier places the rag into my mouth. I clench my
eyes shut and try to take one last breath. My chest begins convulsing the
moment the water splashes across my face. I inhale violently, feeling water
running up through my nostrils and down the back of my throat, entering my
lungs.
    My arms convulse, pulling at the leather straps. I’m King
Kong, or I’m King Kong’s sacrifice. Water continues to enter my lungs. I’m
gonna die. Pins and needles stab every inch of my body and I imagine my lungs
as two red water balloons, filling quickly and stretching the rubber until the
color brightens. I’m going to die. My brain feels hot. My heart thumps against
my rib cage.
    The cloth and head strap come off. A strong hand applies
pressure to my stomach and forces the water out.
    “I’m a terrorist,” I say between gasping breaths. “I’m a
terrorist.”
    “What are your objectives,” asks the interrogator from the
shadows.
    Breathe in. “I’m a terrorist.” Breathe out. The entire room
spins in a counter-clockwise circle.
    “What are your objectives.”
    “I’m a terrorist.” Every breath feels like Heaven. Just
months ago, “Heaven” was a bottle of beer after a long night of work. It was my
couch, my television, the technology channel on and the cool autumn air sliding
in through the living room window.
    Someone mumbles something in another language. I breathe in,
breathe out.
    The soldier unlocks the straps and holds my body in a sitting
position while the other soldier cuffs my hands behind my back. They unlock the
ankle straps and pull me off the table. I see the interrogator out of the
corner of my eye before they put the hood back over my face. He’s standing next
to the middle-aged man with the Anodyne logo on his chest.
    They put me back into the small concrete room I’d been in
before, only now the bright overhead light has been turned off. I sit down in
the far corner, huddling my legs close to my chest and breathing deeply,
quickly, without the benefit of automatic response. My body refuses to breathe
on its own—I have to regulate it consciously. I have to force myself to
take in fresh air.
    I start to cry. I can’t stop. I feel like I’m dying, or maybe
I’m already dead. My hands won’t stop shaking. I want the light. I don’t want
the darkness. I don’t want to sleep. I just want … I don’t know what I want.
    “Hey,” a quiet voice calls out. I immediately turn to the
door, but it’s still closed.
    “Hey,” the voice says again.
    I look up, toward the small vent at the ceiling.
    “Are you okay?” the voice says. It’s a young man’s voice,
low-pitched.
    “Yes,” I say softly.
    “What?”
    “Yes,” I say, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath. “I’m
… I’ve been better.”
    “We’ve all been better.” He grunts out what sounds like a
laugh. “Are they feeding you bread?”
    “What?”
    “Are they feeding you bread? White bread?” he says louder.
    “Yeah,” I say. “Well, they were.”
    “I fucking hate white bread.”
    I lean my head back against the concrete. “I like the
multi-grain stuff. The real expensive organic stuff. Fills me up.”
    “You sound like a lower-class,” he says, then adds