Debriefing

They call it a debriefing. 

They tell her how valuable the information will be. How it’s her duty to tell them anything she can remember from her time inside the compound. 

Her time in hell. 

She stares at the tapestry behind the scribe, counting the threads on the weft until the numbers start to crowd out the images in her head. 

“What happened next?” 

The man’s trying to be gentle, understanding, but she can hear the edge of frustration in his voice. 

“I told you,” she says, voice strained. “I don’t remember.” 

He sighs, sitting back. Taps his pen on the table. 

“You have nightmares.” 

It’s not a question. She doesn’t respond. 

“What happens in your dreams?” 

She hesitates. She’s lost her place. Lost count of the threads. 

“They’re just dreams,” he says, as if that will soothe her. “Maybe talking about them will help.” 

Tamzin’s hand has drifted to her stomach. She doesn’t like the way his eyes follow the movement. Doesn’t like the pity she sees in them. 

It’s hard to forget the way her insides felt between her fingers, the dull panic of trying to keep her intestines from spilling out of her body, onto the filthy floor. 

“...She hurts me.” 

Her hand clenches into a fist, knotting the fabric and pinching her flesh as though she’s afraid her scars will burst open beneath her coat. 

“Again.” 

The scribe stops tapping his pen, sitting upright. He’s ready to take notes again. Ready to put her pain into bullet points, round up the gore and suffering into neat letters on neat lines in his neat little folios. 

Tamzin takes a deep breath, and tries not to vomit on the desk. 

“I hit my head,” she begins again. “So it’s all mixed up, I think. Just bits and pieces.”