They pause every once in a while and throw questions at me, promising to stop if only I would answer. And when my lungs feel like they’re bursting, I want to give in. I want to put an end to this—yet something inside me won’t let me. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of winning, of letting them kill me while knowing that they achieved what they wanted.

As my body strains for air, my father’s voice comes to me.

“Are you going to cry? Are you going to cry like your mama’s pretty boy or face me like a man?”

I’m four years old again, cowering in the corner as my father kicks me repeatedly in the ribs. I know the right answer to his question—I know I need to face him—but I’m scared. I’m so scared. I can feel the wetness on my face, and I know it will make him angry. I don’t mean to cry. I haven’t truly cried since I was a baby, but the pain in my ribs makes my eyes water. If my mother were here, she’d hold me and kiss me, but she doesn’t come near me when my father is in this kind of mood. She’s too afraid of him.

I hate my father. I hate him, and I want to be like him all at once. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be the one with the power, the one everyone’s afraid of.

Rolling up into a little ball, I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the betraying moisture off my face, and then I get to my feet, ignoring my fear and the ache in my bruised ribs.

“I’m not going to cry.” Swallowing the knot in my throat, I look up to meet my father’s angry gaze. “I’m never going to cry.”

Curses in Arabic. More wetness on my face.

My mind is violently wrenched back to the present as I convulse, gagging and sucking in air when the soaked rag is removed. My lungs expand greedily, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear Majid yelling at the man who almost killed me.

Well, fuck. Looks like this portion of the fun is over.

They start with the needles next. Long, thick needles that they drive under my toenails and fingernails. I’m able to bear this better, my mind divorcing itself from my tortured body and taking me back to the past.

I’m nine now. My father brought me to the city for negotiations with his suppliers. I’m sitting on the steps, guarding the entrance to the building, a gun tucked into my belt underneath my T-shirt. I know how to use this gun; I already killed two men with it. I threw up after the first one, earning myself a beating, but the second kill had been easier. I didn’t even flinch when I pulled the trigger.

A few teenage boys walk out onto the street. I recognize their tattoos; they’re part of a local gang. My father probably used them at some point to distribute his product, but right now they appear to be bored and at loose ends.