Page 32 of Love of the Egoist
“Why the hell can’t I get you out of my head?” he asked himself and grinned, remembering that bold, challenging look those soulful eyes had given him often. But the memory flow changed its course and now Kuon lay weak and frail in his bed. His body shivering, lips dusty, and eyes feverishly glinting. Icy fingers clutched his hand, begging him to stay.
Yugo crushed the cigarette in an ashtray, got up, put his pants on, and left the room.
“Greg, install a microphone in his room next time he takes a shower.” A slam of the door followed his quiet words.
“Boss,” Greg trailed close behind.
“What is it?”
“The ILO made a statement today. They took responsibility for Ali’s abduction from the prison. Tobias and Gustavo are free and will be returning to Vienna next week. The deal is sound.”
“The ILO? What do they want from Amin?”
“They want the Al-Amin group to join the ILO and fight for creating a caliphate within Afghanistan. They gave him a month to make the arrangements.”
“More propaganda? Amin will never surrender Afghanistan. His own people will execute him and his family. The ILO doesn’t expect him to comply; they need a reason to justify another murder. Tell Rudolph he has to find himself other slave suppliers. We take Amin’s side.”
“Yes, Boss.”
??E??
KUON AWOKE EARLY.Even though he didn’t have a clock in his room, he could tell it was early morning. The sullen sky sprawled behind the barred window, falling on the earth with a heavy mist, it erased everything around. The birds, fully awake, had already started their morning warbles but without confidence, as if they weren’t sure the morning had really come. Humid air crept into the room through the slightly opened window, bringing in a pine scent.
But this morning was different. It was full of tension, as if someone had tightened each and every one of his nerves to its limit, and now his body resonated with anticipation. He craved activity, craved anything that could get him out of this room. This white ceiling that weighed him down.
The forest and young grass were visible from his window, dressed in green a while ago, and he couldn’t help guessing how long he’d been stuck here. It’d been seventeen days since he’d regained his consciousness after the first rape. Counting days wasn’t a hard task when your windows faced east, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d spent in the basement. It’d already been warm during the day, and he assumed April had taken a turn.
Not willing to waste another second, he got up and once again paced around the room, trying to find a weak spot. He probed the bars, then the windowsill’s solidity, even tapped the walls searching for hollows, but all in vain. His prison didn’t have an exit other than the door he came in through.
I can’t stay here any longer … if I stay, I’ll go crazy. He will definitely break me. If not him, this fucking room will.Defeated, Kuon closed his eyes. The fire of anger and irritation spread through his blood, burning through his insides. Not knowing how to let his frustration out, he pulled his gray shirt off, tossed it in a corner, dropped to the floor, and started counting push-ups. He didn’t know any way to clear his head and kill time other than physical activity.
Fuck, I got weak …he thought, annoyed and dissatisfied with himself. Forcing his lazy muscles, he put his right hand behind his back, continuing the exercise with his left one. His brain, busy with thoughts of escape, didn’t register the workout which followed.
Only when his body was completely warmed up and sweat poured down his skin did Kuon close his eyes and imagine an opponent. It was a skillful and cunning competitor. Kuon could see his hands flashing in the air, long legs targeting his body and head. When the illusion became clear, he stepped forward and repelled the first attacks of the imaginary foe, working on his combos.
Kuon loved this game and never got tired of playing it. Maybe that’s why he’d always lost to his own mind. His imaginary opponent had always been a little faster, more agile, and definitely stronger.
After a couple of minutes, when a sharp pang in his head sent the room spinning, he had to cut the training off. He cringed, fighting the sickness, and sank to the floor, crossing his legs, Indian style, in front of him. His mind, never letting go of the escape idea, recreated the floor plan of this building focusing on the rooms he had been in. Searching with his mind’s imagined projections, Kuon delved into details he didn’t know he remembered.
The bathroom is not an option …he thought, recalling the ascetical room which would be a better fit in a hotel than in the house of someone who rubbed his ass on ostrich leather every day. The window was too narrow, and he doubted he could knock Greg out while wearing handcuffs.
The bedroom? If I can make Yugo relax to the point he takes the cuffs off … maybe I would stand a chance. I could attack him from behind and knock him out. I can’t fight him openly. Not now … I am too weak.
The dizziness faded. He got up and approached a wall, not thinking about its inability to hold his impact. Flexing his shoulders, he got in to position placing his feet apart and threw a few short jabs forward, aiming at the smooth white surface. His muscles sang, filled with blood, skin beaded with sweat, gleaming as if polished with oil.
The wall he’d been thrashing against for the last half an hour broke up in no time; a net of small cracks across it, enough for the plaster to fall off.
“What are you doing?” The familiar voice sounded amused.
Kuon, engrossed with his training, hadn’t heard the door opening.
“Getting ready to smash your fucking face.” The young detective didn’t bother to hide his plan. Hatred exploded in his core as he faced the man only to see curiosity shining in the almond-shaped gray eyes.
Yugo’s lips twitched, and he burst out laughing. Kuon frowned and lowered his broken, blood-soaked knuckles. Confusion tightened his chest. Seeing Yugo laughing like that made him feel stupid. But his anger melted, leaving behind only mental turmoil and anxiety.
“How do you plan to smash myfucking facewith those hands?” Yugo launched forward catching Kuon’s hand, lifting his broken knuckles to his face; his white shirt half unbuttoned.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something,” Kuon replied with a smile and a fast stroke, trying to spike his anger with an attack. He needed to be mad so he wouldn’t be scared. His fist skidded along Yugo’s cheekbone, slightly touching it and coloring it with copper.
