Captive- Veiled Desires Read online

  And then just as slowly, the pain subsided. Her eyes grew heavy and darkness overpowered her limp body.

  When she woke up next, she would be in Kupwara, she thought. This was all just a nightmare. It would be all gone soon.

  HAPTER 2

  Her eyes fluttered sleepily, trying to come awake. The door creaked open and the sudden light pouring through it blinded her, hurting her eyes. A silhouette appeared in the door-way and feet shuffled towards her. Something pressed hard against her nose. She couldn’t cry. She tried, but not a sound escaped her lips. Her body was limp and too weary to fight. She managed a small groan. And then sleep subdued her mind yet again. Then there was darkness. Utter darkness. She was too afraid she’d never wake again. She must have died, ‘cause this surely had to be hell.

  The first thing she heard was the muffled voices in the distance. The sounds were foreign and strange. She didn’t understand a word they were saying. Perhaps, she was still too fatigued to decipher them.

  She tried scrambling onto her feet, but the ropes burned into her wrists, cutting into her flesh. She cried out in pain. Her back cramped, her body was stiff and aching from lying on that cold hard, dirt floor for who knew how long. Her knees clamped together and she realized her legs were bound at the ankles as well.

  Her eyes widened with shock as her brain registered her circumstances. Her chest walls constricted. Her breathing was short and rapid. What was going on? No, this wasn’t happening. This shouldn’t happen to her. She had heard of girls being kidnapped into sex slavery. But she was too old for this shit. She was twenty-eight. What would they want with her?

  She sobbed quietly, trying to release the rope on her wrists with her teeth. They wouldn’t come off. Unable to move, she felt something was blocking her air-way. She gasped for air, pulling at the ropes desperately. She slithered on the dirt floor, trying to release the knot in her ropes, but her rash movements only worsened it, tightening them even more and cutting into the arteries in her wrists.

  She finally gave up on it, releasing a sharp cry. “Help, someone,” she pleaded. “Someone, please, help me!”

  She heard the people outside her room let out a sound of alert. Feet scrambled and a few painful minutes later, the door opened. A man dressed in loose pants and an equally long loose shirt stepped inside. He wore an old grayish waist-coat over his shirt and a checkered scarf around his neck. A wooly hat with a rounded trim sat on the top of his head.

  Where had she seen pictures of his attire? Kashmiri men didn’t wear the hat he wore. Where then? Her mind rapidly flashed through her memories, trying to decode her location through the clothes he wore. Pakistan? Afghanistan?

  Her blood ran cold, her body freezing from the terror of her realization. Afghanistan… she was in Afghanistan. How the fuck did she get to Afghanistan from Kashmir?

  The man stared directly into her eyes and she crouched back in fear. His eyes were dark and almost soul-less. Short scruffy beard graced his square jaw-line. He would have been handsome, she thought, if he didn’t look so cruel and heartless.

  He knelt down to her and she cringed. What would he do to her?

  His eyes roved down the length of her and she was thankful she had taken lengths on adhering to the Kashmiri dress code. But how long would she be protected in her jeans and long cotton shirt?

  He looked down at her wrists and the blood stained rope. His hand moved towards her and she gasped, crawling further back into the wall. He pulled her by the hand and began untying the ropes at her ankles and then her wrists.

  “Are you Nora Jennings?” he asked. His voice was heavy and husky.

  “Yes.” She trembled.

  “Nora.” He breathed out her name slowly, as if tasting the sound of it on his lips. “Are you Muslim?”

  The rope came loose and she thankfully withdrew her hand to massage the pain away in her wrists, clasping it against her breasts.

  “Are you Muslim?” he repeated again a little more sternly than before, catching her attention.

  Muslim? If she said yes, he might probably spare her, seeing her as a fellow comrade. But if he discovered she was lying, there was more likelihood she would be dead.

  “No,” she said hesitantly.

  “Your name is Nora, right?”

  “Yes,” she said confusedly, wondering what the deal was with her name. “It’s short for Eleanor. But my parents preferred the shorter version.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “I was hoping you were Muslim. Nora means light in Arabic.” He squinted at her, thinking briefly. “Are you hungry?”

  Her stomach rumbled at the mere word. “I’m thirsty,” she said, preferring a drink. Her throat and lips were parched and she didn’t know how long she had been without water because every part of her felt shriveled and dehydrated.

  He nodded and then called out to someone. Feet scrambled at the simple command of his voice. If anything, she knew he had power. She was talking to the big man, whoever he was.

  Not long after, a woman clad in Arabic gear, walked in with a plate of food and water. She handed it over to him and he in turn, slid it over to her.

  Nora looked eagerly onto the glass of water, wondering if she should take it. The man nodded again and she grabbed at it instantly. She relished the coolness washing away the cotton taste in her mouth, the water running down her throat soaking up the dryness inside her. Droplets trickled down her neck, dampening her shirt. But she didn’t care until she looked back at the man who seemed to have noticed it. Nervousness bound her again.

  “Here,” he said, pushing forward the tray of food. “Eat.”

  She hesitated and he sighed. He rose up to his feet and turned away, walking out as quietly as he had come in.

  She reached out desperately for the food, gulping down the bread and roasted vegetable. She looked at the door. The man had shut it behind him again. She didn’t know if she would survive her kidnapping. But for now she was alive. And in such a game, one didn’t count the weeks or the hours to its end. There was no future in that. The present was all that mattered.

  She licked the last crumbs of her bread from her plate. She wiped it clean, leaving not a trace of her food. She couldn’t waste it. She didn’t know when her next meal was going to be. She had seen those survivor shows, read those ordeals.

  She tossed her plate aside and then crept quietly towards the door. She heard voices outside it and she knew she would never escape through it with those men outside standing guard. There was only one window in her prison and it was too far up to even look through. The purpose for it was solely for air and light. She was yet to find out how chilly it would get in the night.

  The walls were made of solid dirt. She could probably claw through it but it would take her several months. And not if they discovered it first.

  She slid down wearily against the wall, sobbing. How did she get herself into this shit? After all the pre-cautions she had taken, she trusted a couple of women in an unlicensed cab and got herself kidnapped. Good call, Nora. Good fucking call.

  The night was cold and her teeth chattered from the severe drop in the temperature. She huddled in a corner of the room, away from the draft drifting from the window above her.

  Finally, when she couldn’t tolerate it anymore, she banged feebly onto the door. She would rather they kill her because if they didn’t, she’d die from the hypothermia anyway.

  “I need a blanket,” she cried. “Someone, please, I need a blanket.”

  The door swung open and the woman who had brought her food had returned with a dusty covering. She laid it gently at her feet.

  Nora glanced at her hesitantly. Did the woman feel pity for her? But she shouldn’t trust her. She was deceived by two just like her earlier.

  She pulled the blanket towards her, keeping an eye on her as she did. The woman said nothing, walking out back quietly.

  The woman returned once more in the morning with an empty pail. She put it down beside her and waited.

 
; “What?” Nora said, looking at it with shocking disbelief. “You don’t expect me to go in that?”

  The woman walked to the opposite end of the room and squatted, waiting for her to be done with her business.

  “Oh for Christ’s sakes,” Nora exclaimed. “Don’t you have a toilet? I won’t run, I promise.”

  The woman didn’t budge, watching her with an expressionless face.

  Nora clutched her head in frustration. What was she to do? She stared at the bucket for a while, raging inside. There was no use fighting with the woman. She’d only probably get hit again.

  Wiping back her tears, she asked slowly, “At least, give me some privacy.”

  The woman folded her arms about her knees,

  “Listen,” Nora tried again. “I won’t be able to shit in that with you watching over me. You’d only have to come back again to clean up the mess that I will do to this place later once you’ve gone. So do us both a favor, and leave.”

  The woman stared at her blankly as if she was contemplating the idea, and then stood up. She handed her a bunch of wet paper towels and then left the room to let Nora finish with her business.

  The door swung open again. The man had returned.

  Nora stood up. She had been waiting for him. She was getting desperate for answers. She had tried screaming and they let her scream her heart out until she had tired. No one had bothered to pay her the slightest attention. Not even to scold her.

  “How are you feeling now?” the man asked.

  “Why have you brought me here?” she asked back with a little more boldness than the last time they had met.

  “I see your meals have brought back your confidence,” he said with slight amusement. “But I’m afraid, in here, I do the questioning.”

  He neared her and she stepped back.

  “You took some photographs at Dal Lake a few days ago,” he started. “But there are no pictures of the man on the pier.”

  “What… what man?” she stammered, her mind racing through her activities of that day. Had she accidently caught something dangerous on camera?

  “Don’t play with me,” the man warned.

  “I’m not. I swear. I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Miss Jennings, you are a photographer for the Chicago Herald, are you not?”

  “Y-y-yes.” She swallowed. What was he getting at?

  “Is that all you are? Or is there more to what you do?”

  “I am a photographer… I was.”

  “Why did you resign?”

  “What has any of my personal life got to do with this?” she screamed, the frustration from his inquisition rising inside her.

  He swung his arm and struck her harshly across her face. She stumbled and braced herself against the wall. Her eyes welled from the pain and her cheek bruised immediately. She glared at the man. He might as well kill her! She gritted her teeth and charged for him.

  “You bastard! You fucking bastard!” She clawed at him, trying to hit him at the same time.

  He swung her against the wall and hit her squarely on the face again. She fell from the heavy brunt of his fist, the corners of her mouth bleeding.

  “I told you I asked the questions here.” He pointed down at her, warning her. “Are you a spy?”

  “No, you asshole, I’m not!”

  He tugged her head up by the hair and pulled her bruised face up to him. “You will speak to me with respect.”

  “The fuck I will.”

  His mouth scrunched angrily and he threw her against the wall. “Where are the pictures?!”

  He kicked her in the belly and she screamed. The pain tore her insides, her head reeled. She doubled over, trying to protect herself from his violent kicks to her body.

  “Where are the pictures?! Where are the photographs?!”

  The door flung open and the woman ran in, trying to pull the man away from her. But he would not relent as he grabbed a fistful of Nora’s hair and dragged her across the floor. The woman pushed him with brute force. But it was not until Nora thought the woman had threatened him, did he stop.

  “Tomorrow, I will come back,” he minced at Nora. “You better have some answers then.”

  He gave one final glaring glance at the woman and then stormed out of the room with rage.

  Nora groaned on the floor as she clutched her stomach. The woman bent down to check on her. She clicked her tongue with sympathy and said something. Nora didn’t understand what it was, but it did sound like English.

  The woman left her and Nora cried softly, suddenly missing her. She didn’t know her. And she certainly didn’t trust her. But she didn’t want to be alone for now.

  As if an answer to her prayer, the woman returned, but this time with a bowl of warm water and a towel.

  “Sshhh,” she said when Nora cried on seeing her. “He’ll hear you and he will come back.”

  Nora nodded and bit her lips hard, trying to stifle her cries.

  The woman washed her face and the warmth of the damp towel against her swelling flesh soothed her. She winced slightly as the woman dabbed on the cut on her lip.

  “Thank you,” Nora mumbled after a little while. Her voice croaked and she could barely speak. Each syllable she uttered hurt her diaphragm, the sounds feeling like they were hammering at her ribs, breaking it into pieces.

  The woman lifted her shirt and exclaimed in horror. Nora could tell she had released some vulgarities by the tone of her voice. She didn’t need a translator to understand that.

  “Is it bad?” Nora asked, trying to sound as courageous as she could.

  “He’s a mad man. It’s all blue and black.” The woman shook her head and dabbed at it with her damp towel. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

  Nora winced at the mere touch of the towel against her ribs. The spasm speared through her nerves and she ground her teeth. “Why are you doing this?”

  The woman said nothing, dabbing gently at her bruised ribs.

  “Why won’t you speak to me?” Nora groaned.

  The woman withdrew the towel, bracing herself to stand up.

  Nora clutched onto her hand quickly. “At least, tell me your name.”

  The woman gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “My name is Freba. You mustn’t talk too much to me. Mateen doesn’t like it. He will only hurt you more.”

  “But why has he brought me here? What is he going to do to me?”

  “Shhh,” Freba said nervously, glancing quickly over at the door. “Don’t worry. I’m bringing help. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Nora nodded, sighing thankfully. Help was good. Help was coming. All she needed to do was be patient. But being patient was also the hardest thing to bear when she was doubling in pain, and the thought of her tormentor walking back anytime through that door lurking at the back of her mind.

  Just as she had expected, Mateen, the tormentor arrived back again in her prison.

  She withdrew to the end of the room, trembling. Being dead didn’t hurt at all. It was the torture leading to that that did.

  He sneered. “Have you decided to tell me where those pictures are?”

  She tried to keep a bold face, pulling her chin up. “Yes, I took some pictures at Dal Lake. And I took a couple of shots of that man you’re referring to. But they came out dark and I deleted them.” Her lips quivered. If she told him that she had uploaded it to her online database, she would surely be dead and no one would know what happened to her. If she had to die, then at least the photographs might give a clue to people looking for reasons to her sudden disappearance. She gave a silent prayer to Amy. Find me, Amy. Please, find me.

  He stepped threateningly towards her.

  “I swear,” she cried. “The sun was behind him and the picture came out dark. I’m a photographer. It would have been no use to me so I deleted it.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Y-y- yes.” She shivered. “I didn’t even get a good look at his face. I wouldn’t be able
to pick him out in a crowd. Is that why I’m here?”

  He moved towards her. “But now you have seen my face. What do we do about that?”

  “I’ll never tell a soul. I promise.” She shook with fear.

  He let out a mocking laugh. “Too bad I don’t trust promises.”

  She fell to the floor, cowering to her knees. She had quickly learned that she could cushion much of the blows if she doubled her body.

  The door swung open again, catching them both by surprise. A man strode in, giving her a sharp glance as he walked by and towards Mateen. His face was masked with his scarf, revealing only his gray steely eyes. He was similarly garbed to Mateen, except he wore a turban on his head and not a [5]pakol like Mateen’s.

  He tugged Mateen by the collar and pushed him into the wall, threatening him in a language she didn’t recognize. Freba rushed inside the prison and over to her.

  “Are you okay?” the woman asked her. “Did he hit you again?”

  “No. Not yet.” Nora shuddered at the mere thought of it. Her body trembled visibly and Freba clutched her hands, trying to calm her down.

  “Don’t worry,” Freba whispered. “I told you help was coming.”

  The woman smiled at her and nodded at the man strangling Mateen against the wall.

  “That is help?” Nora asked with disbelief. Her disappointment clouded her face. Help was one Afghan terrorist who might treat her better than another Afghan psychopath? She covered her face with her hands and wept silently, the bitter fact that she might never be rescued washing over her.

  “Sshh,” Freba said. “It will be all okay now.”

  HAPTER 3

  He had first seen her in Dal Lake. He hadn’t realized she was taking pictures, attracted first by her long hair fluttering in the breeze.