I was just a teenager when I found out. There was a protest in our town, about what I don’t recall, and in the front ranks of the crowd I saw Soha. I’d seen her before at the state cultural institute and I’d liked what I saw, but I’d never plucked up the courage to talk to her. Really, what I’d liked were her legs, which had been on show to just below the knee. Rare enough in our little town. It was Soha’s legs that taught me that I was a lover of women’s legs, those wings which hold their lovely bodies aloft. Not so fond that it could be called a fetish, mind you, but it certainly fit my personality: hesitant and wary the way all leg men are, in contrast to the stolid conservatism of the ass lover, the impetuousness of those who choose breasts. Later, I’d come to understand that the true taxonomy of men doesn’t break down by star sign or ethnicity or geography, but rather a generally unacknowledged system of such preferences. Masochists are a guild of their own, stumbling in the darkness, sadists another, and so on, but long before I learned this, the way it all worked, there was only Soha’s legs, which obsessed me and lured me to take part in a protest, despite lacking the courage to approach either her or the protestors. Then the police mounted a surprise attack and we all ran. I was still callow, so while the protest’s leaders timed their escape to perfection, I kept delaying my retreat, and they caught me easily. A policeman started running after me. Since I was skinny I assumed I’d easily outpace his bulk, but then a second cop appeared in front of me, sprinting straight at me, and he balled his fist and caught me with it, right in the eye: his momentum plus mine. I was on the ground instantly, screaming, with all the darkness in the world gathered in the dead center of my eye and my eyelid like a wild beast had torn at it.

I came to in the dark: a vile stench, difficulty breathing, my body hemmed in. Like I was surrounded by bodies, but I couldn’t make anybody out. Minutes went by, hours maybe, then I had what I’d subsequently identify as my first-ever panic attack. I’ve been on the brink of death often enough since, but nothing, not even death, compares to these attacks: the trembling, the inability to breathe, the feeling that you’re toppling into an abyss while standing still.

They left us there. No food, no drink, nothing but that repulsive smell.