The Interrogation: A Justin Hall Story

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This work would have not been possible without the great support of my wife and son. I would like to thank Ty Hutchinson, Kenneth Teicher and Claude Dancourt for their helpful suggestions.

I opened my eyes. Water dripped from them. My world had turned upside down. It took me a moment to realize I was hanging by my feet and tied to a large hook fastened to the dungeon’s ceiling. My hands were cuffed behind my back, and I was stripped of most of my clothes.

“The infidel’s waking up,” a guard shouted in Arabic, a language the guards didn’t realize I knew.

He got up from his chair and left, slamming the iron door behind him.

It was strange for him to leave. Earlier, after throwing a bucket of cold water on my head to bring me back to my senses, the guards continued to interrogate me, punching me in between questions. Not this time.

I looked around the dungeon. A dim lamp on a small desk lit the area. The smell of urine and vomit overwhelmed my nose, summoning swelling nausea in my stomach. Pools of brownish liquid stained the floor. Whom did they torture here before me? How long had I been there? I remembered when they dragged me to this place, after the rescue operation to free the Canadian hostages went wrong. Was that last night? Two nights ago?

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