I smelled it again, that horrible stench of burning flesh.  And then I felt it: the gripping, shattering, searing pain.  It still surprised me that the sense of smell registered faster in the mind than the recognition of pain itself.  Maybe the nerve endings were deadening as the scars had built up over time. 

My arms ached from being over extended above my head and bearing my weight as I hung from the chain.  My wrists fought against the cuffs.  My ankles twisted in the leather binding.  I looked up and prayed again that the cracked mortar around the ring that held the chain would free itself from the ceiling and drop me to the floor: the cool, cement floor.  But my continuous struggling didn't weaken the hold.  It only weakened me.  Please God, no more.

He touched it to me again.  My back arched away, but could not escape it.  No, no deadening nerve endings there.  Strange how a burn felt like ice at first.  Chilling, almost causing shivers.  Then, like a quick change of heart, heat so concentrated, so direct, it took your breath away. 

The sounds I made were closer to gasps for air than cries of anguish.  Sometimes the fear came from that desperate search for oxygen.  Sometimes it came from not knowing the full extent of the damage being done.   Mostly it came from thinking it would never stop.  Please God, no more. 

I heard the lighter flick open and smelled the whiff of cigar smoke.  He wanted to play some more.  

"Still with me?" he growled.  "Wouldn't want you to pass out, would we?"

I strained against the chain, willing myself the strength to crack the mortar just a little more.  But my toes barely touched the floor and without sure footing there wasn't much leverage.  Still, if I could twist hard enough, maybe this was the night it would break.  It was my only hope, and hope was the only thing that could keep my head clear.

"If you cooperated, we wouldn't have to go through this as often you know." He feigned a sympathetic tone.  "You don't think I enjoy this, do you?"

I spat what words I could manage between my gulps for air.  

"I'm sure it's.. the only way.. you can get off."  I yanked again on the chain, my spirit not yet broken.

"Now surely you must realize a comment like that won't go unpunished," he said snidely.  "But back to our conversation about your son."  He took another long draw on his cigar and touched the ember to the small of my back again, longer this time.  I gritted my teeth and refused to give him the satisfaction of a scream. 

"What color are his eyes?"

I angled my head back, knowing my silence would bring more fire, more damage, more pain.  He did not relent.  He pressed it into my flesh and twisted it with such force, it went out.  Then he flicked open his lighter.   Again.

Steadying my stance as much as my tip toes would allow, I wrenched my arms away from the ceiling as hard as I could.  Chips of mortar speckled my forehead.  It was all the encouragement I needed.  I channeled any remaining strength to my arms and managed one final pull. 

And I was free.  Oh God, free.  The chain cascaded down in front of me.  My arms flailed with joyous abandon, the air in my grasp.  Standing on two bound but solid feet, I felt absurdly hysterical with laughter and screamed at my new found freedom.

Finally.  Finally able to defend myself against this bastard.  A fair fight this time.  Come at me now, you prick, now that my arms have full range.  

I waved them, cuffs, chains and all, windmill like, punching at the air, punching at anything unlucky enough to come close.  I could fight now and I would.

I felt a resistance against my shoulder, a presence, a menace and I swung.  Then I heard a voice...muddy, insistent, female.

"Terry.  Terry, wake up." 

It was definitely female, but muffled, distant.

"Terry, you're having a nightmare.  Wake up."

Get away from me, whoever you are.  I screamed something primal to hold them off.  Stay your distance.  Be warned.  Don't touch me again.  

"You're dreaming.  Terry, wake up.  Please."

My eyes snapped open suddenly as if an electric current had charged me with anger.

Where was I now?  This room?  This chair?  This window?  That face.  It was....it was Alice.

"What."  My throat was dry as I shouted.    "What's wrong?"

"You're having a nightmare.  Wake up."

It was Alice, in front of me.  I swept my gaze wildly around the room, looking for others.  I could hear myself panting.  Then I realized.  We weren't there.  Not at that place.  This was her home.  She was here and I was with her.  It had only been the dream.  The God Damn Dream.

Intently, I focused on her, looking for bruises.

"Did I hurt you?" I choked.

"No," she was insistent, yet calm.   "You were just dreaming."

"I didn't hit you?"  Maybe she hadn't heard the question.

"No.  I'm fine.  It was just a dream.  I went to bed hours ago.  I thought you'd gone.  Then I heard you struggling."

I visually examined her face.  No red marks.  Her body posture indicated no defensiveness.  I hadn't hurt her.  My sigh was cathartic as I blew angry air from my aching lungs.

"Sorry."  I shook my head to try to clear it.  A futile effort.

"Terry, you're okay.  It was just a dream."  She rubbed my shoulder and I winced back from her touch.  "Why would you think you hurt me?  Is that what you were dreaming?"

"No...I have that dream repeatedly... when I have it I wave my arms.  Sometimes if I flail enough, I hit things near me.  Mostly ashtrays on hotel night stands."  I shook my head again.  Still hazy.  "I broke a lamp once."

She spoke lightly, "Yeah, well, I guess the lamp couldn't get out of the way."

I took a breath. 

"I hit a woman once."  I revisited that night one more time.  The sight of her bloody face filled my foggy head and I shook it again, rubbing the memory from my eyes.   "Now I just don't take that chance."

"Meaning what?"

I took another breath and tried to focus on Alice.   "I always sleep alone."

"You dream it that often?"

"Yeah."

"Same dream every time?"

"Yeah."

"Have you talked it out with anyone?"

Stop the questions.

"Alice, I can't...I..."

She spoke gently.   "Might help.  Dreams are just metaphors to help us figure out...."

"Not this one," I insisted.   "This is a memory, not a metaphor.  Actual events."

I pushed myself up into a sitting position.  I had slumped over the arm of the chair and drifted to sleep.  Damn it.  That wouldn't happen again.  I should never let her see me coming out of the dream.  I should never seem out of control.  It would undermine her confidence in me.

Her voice was cautious.   "Is someone hurting you or are you trying to stop them from hurting someone else?"

My eyes darted to hers.  Was she baiting me?

"What?"

"It sounded like you were pleading with someone to stop."

Is she making this up?  Is she questioning me?  I never talk.  I know it.  I'm sure.  Is it possible?

"I talk....in the dream?"

"Yeah.  You said Please God, no more."

I winced and looked at the floor, my face suddenly hot.  I shifted in the chair.  She would think I was overwhelmed.  She would think I was weak.  

"I didn't know that...that I talked."

She would lose faith in me.  My face steamed with heat and the sweat started anew.   I couldn't look at her.

"It's you they're hurting, isn't it?" she whispered.

Stop.  Just stop the questions.  I can't tell you anything.  I won't tell you anything.  I'm trained not to say...

"Does it have to do with the scars on your back?" She probed, softly.  

My eyes opened wider and I stared at her.  I stopped breathing for a moment.  How did she know about the scars?  I had never told her.  Was I still dreaming?  Was none of this really happening?  If she was in the dream with me, could I protect her?  I shook my head again and my eyes pleaded for an answer.  How could she know about the scars?

She looked almost ashamed.  "I got up from my nap earlier than I said the other day.  I saw you coming out of the pool.  That's when I saw your back."  

"I'm sorry," I fumbled for words.   "I didn't mean for you to see that."

I pushed myself up fully in the chair.  My hands gripped its arms and I tried to force myself to a standing position, but was still unsteady and slid back down.  "I need to get up and get some work done."

"It's only two o'clock.  You could get more sleep."  She pushed her palm down against my shoulder.  I winced again and pulled away in a jerk. 

"No, I really need to get up."

"Terry, you could try."  She touched me again, rubbing my back.  The pain was sharp and unrelenting.  I pulled away and grabbed her hand.  Don't touch me again.  Don't touch them.

"My skin....it burns...when I have the dream, my skin burns."  I shifted to get away from her and tried again to rise, but couldn't.   "I just need to stand in a cold shower for a minute.  If you don't mind."

"A little high impact, isn't it?"  Alice headed toward the kitchen.   "Stay there, I've got a better idea.  How about just a cold towel?"  

I was still hazy, almost paralyzed, sitting motionless as she wetted a towel and hand cloth in the sink and walked back toward me.

"Take your shirt off."

The burning was intense, but I paused.  "I don't want you to see it."

"I told you, I've seen it."  

"Up close, I mean.  It....it might be hard to look at."

Her smile was one of polite impatience.  "I worked in a hospital ward in Africa where they did amputations by machete.  Peace Corps isn't for wimps, you know.  Take your shirt off."  She sat down on the ottoman in front of the chair.  "Turn a little.  Away from me." 

The burning became too much and the promise of relief too close.  I stripped off the shirt, angled away from her and tried to relax as she spread the towel gently over the worst of the scars.  I gasped a sigh as it touched me.  She handed me the smaller cloth and I covered my face in it, dragging it around the back of my neck.

"Feel better?"

"Remarkably," I blurted.  Then quietly, "Thank you."

She lightly laid the towel in sections over my back and I leaned into it gladly.  I was fully awake now.  Her touch was welcome again, and now more visceral, more vibrant because of the pain.   Don't let her stop.   Let her heal me.  Let me always feel this way when she touches me.

"Your skin is actually hot," she observed.    "Maybe getting over-heated kicks off the dream."

"No, I've had it in a number of different climates over the years."

"The towel is getting warm.  I'll freshen it.  Stay here."

She rinsed it in the sink as I stretched awkwardly.  I must have pulled a shoulder muscle in my sleep.  Her smile as she returned calmed me and I resigned to her care.  She draped the towel across my back and smoothed it with her hands.  It was cooling now.  The burning was gone.  Just a memory.  Like all of it.  Not real any more, just a memory.  None of it was happening now.  Now I was here, with her.

She spoke gently.  

"I've ...I've never seen war wounds like these." 

Don't ask me.  Please don't ask me.

"So I'm guessing they're from your childhood."

Just let it go, please.  Couldn't we just put out the fire and let it go?

"I know you said your father liked to use his belt, but I had no idea...  I've never seen belt marks.  The way your skin looks torn, were these made with the buckle?"

Maybe if I say nothing, she'll drop it.  She'll sense I don't want to talk and .....

"If you're still having the dreams that often after all this time, you really should get some help."

"No."  Leave it alone.

"Terry, there are some wonderfully effective therapies now for childhood trauma that ..."

"No."  I said sharply, and too loudly.

"Maybe, if you'd just talk it out, it might...." 

"NO!" I shouted.

She jerked a little from my tone, and looked down.  I kept staring ahead, seeing her only in my peripheral vision.  I couldn't look at her.  But I felt her demeanor change. 

She must have sensed she crossed a line.  There was a limit to how close I would let someone get.  She had tried to come closer and I shouted it out of her.  Why couldn't I let her in?  Just this once...let someone in.  She just wanted to care for me.  And all I could do was shout her away.

She took the towel gently, her head down, and whispered, ashamed.

"I'm sorry.  I'll just freshen this again." 

She rose slowly, pushing herself up from the ottoman.  Don't go.  I won't shout again.  I just don't want to give details.  Don't pull away.  I feel better with you near me.  Stay, please.

"Alice."

I gripped her wrist lightly and urged her back down.  She complied.   I tried to look at her, but I didn't want her to see weakness in my face.

"It isn't from my childhood." I took a deep breath, forming the words I always avoided, the thoughts I hated to remember.   "I....was captured during a special ops assignment.  I served some time as ...as a prisoner of war."

Her lips parted and her eyes filled with surprise and concern.  It sounded too dramatic, so I tried to deflect it with humor.

"These scars are just my .....souvenirs from camp."

I forced an ironic smile and searched her eyes for anything other than sympathy.

She spoke quietly.   "Along with the dream?"

I released her wrist, suddenly remembering she had heard me cry out in my sleep.

"Yes," I felt like a child.   "I dream about the interrogations."

I looked down in shame.

"I'm sorry you had to hear me," I shook my head, trying to find a way to say it.    "Their methods of pain administration were...formidable."

"How long were you there?" she whispered.

"A f..few m..months."  I started to fumble and pulled my bottom lip in tightly between my teeth.

"What did they do to you that left those scars?"

I could feel my heart rate quicken and my body temperature rise.  The sweat she had caressed from my back rose to the surface again.  I tried to lick my lips, but my tongue was dry.   I can't do this.  I'll break apart, right in front of her.

"Alice," my voice was breathless, "I ...I really can't talk about it."

"Is it still classified?"

I smiled through a shaking jaw.

"No, it's just...difficult for me ...to dis...discuss it.  So I'd rather not....okay?" 

My eyes tried to say the words that wouldn't come.  I can't talk about it without crumbling.  I don't want to sharpen the unfocused memories that fill my dreams.  I don't want to find the phrases that would describe them.  I don't want to return there, even in words.  I want to forget.  I want to forget. 

She laid her hands gently on my forearm and nodded.  She understood.  She felt it.  Her eyes filled with tears and I saw in them something I'd never seen before: empathy. 

"I'm sorry they hurt you." she whispered.  "I'm glad you made it through." 

I heard myself gasp aloud and her face blurred in my watery gaze.  This was it.  It was what I hoped existed somewhere.  This was what it felt like when someone touched your heart.  I swallowed hard and blinked to clear my eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, as if she had hurt me somehow.

I felt a sad smile overtake me.

"You just showed more compassion than my wife did when I got home."

I wanted to look into her eyes forever.  I wanted to hold her again, the way we had that night when we were both too lonely to fight it.  I wanted her to know she was the only person I had ever let get this close. 

But I didn't know the words to say, or the move to make.  Would it be misinterpreted if I touched her?  Would I ruin this moment?  So instead of taking the chance, I asked for her help.

"I don't know how to do this."

Alice smiled, "Do what?"

I sighed a nervous laugh and tried to explain.

"I come from a family where kindness was perceived as weakness," I angled my head.   "And then I joined the military."

We both smiled.

"And then I entered into a loveless marriage.  And in this job, to be effective, you have to steel yourself for the constant battle of wills.  I know how to fight battles.  I just..."

Just say it.

"I have no idea how to respond to tenderness."

I wanted to feel even closer to her, as if we were an extension of each other.   As if we were inside of each other.  Tell me I can hold you again.  Tell me tenderness is the beginning of real intimacy.  Tell me I can draw breath from you as we kiss. 

She raised her hands to my face and cradled my chin gently.  As if in another dream, a wonderful dream, I felt her lean into me and press her lips to my cheek.  A few strands of her hair danced across my closed eyes.  As much as I wanted to turn and touch my lips to hers, I resisted and soaked in this moment, this feeling.  It was almost everything.  It was almost enough.

She caressed her cheek against mine and pulled away.  

"You don't need to respond to it."  She released me.  I breathed a full breath again, knowing she was strong enough to stop us.

"What you need is more sleep."

The wonderful dream came to its end and I eased back away from her.  "No, I'll just get up."

"Terry, you're obviously exhausted.  That's why you fell asleep in the chair.  Just move to the couch and..."

"I never go back to sleep afterwards."

"Well it's no wonder if you take a cold shower.    But we've skipped that part." 

My voice grew stronger, almost curt.

"I don't want more sleep."  Don't push her away.  Just tell her the truth.  "The dream starts over if I do."

She tilted her head.

"When was the last time you tried?"

"Tried what?"

"Going back to sleep afterwards.  Without the cold shower.  When was the last time you tried?"

"I don't know," I fumbled.  "Awhile."

She smiled, reassuringly.

"I think it's worth a shot.  You might not go back into it.  You might get some sleep."

I knew she was trying to help.  But she didn't know the drill.

"Look, I've been through this a number of times.  I know how to handle it."

"Well, if you always sleep alone, you haven't had the option you have now."  

She was being strong, insistent, a part of her I knew well and was beginning to depend on.

She took the towel and cloth to the kitchen and draped them on the rack.  She returned to the couch, fluffed the pillows and pulled the blanket out from behind it.

"This is what we're gonna do."  She unfolded the blanket and smoothed it.  "You lie down here and go back to sleep.  I'll stay awake and watch over you.  If you make a sound or move a muscle that indicates you're in the dream, I'll wake you."

I stood up, moved toward her, and caught her fussing wrist in my hand.  I looked deeply into her eyes.  She needed to understand.

"It's not safe for you to wake me."

She brushed away my hand and my objection.

"I already did once tonight.  I'll be fine."

Yeah, she was lucky the first time.  But it was too much risk.  I insisted.

"It's.  Not.  Safe.  For you to wake me."

"Terry, you won't hurt me." 

I had to tell her.  She needed to know.  I spoke sharply, almost shouting.

"I broke her nose."  I could see it all again: the blood, flowing down over her lips, pooling on the carpet as she stood dumbfounded.  I heard again the scream she finally found after the surprise released her.

"She tried to wake me," my voice choked.   "She got too close.  My arms were flailing and I caught her across the face.  And I broke her nose."    I felt the bloody cloth in my hand again, holding it as I waited in the emergency room. 

"It's been hard to live with and I didn't even know her."  Yeah, a stranger.  I admitted it. "I won't risk hurting you."  I reached for Alice and held her face in my shaking hands.  "I couldn't handle it if I ever hurt you.  Not you."

She covered my hands with hers and shook her head.   Risk or not, she was not dissuaded.   She looked around the room and smiled slyly.

"I'll wake you with the broom.  If I need to, I'll punch you ...with the broom.  I'll be out of your arm's reach.  I'll be safe.  You can sleep."  She pulled me by my willing hands and led me to the couch.  "Now lay down."

My tired body surrendered, but my mind still feared the dream.

"I'm wide awake now.  I probably can't even get back to sleep."

"I can put you to sleep in a matter of seconds.  There's a fool proof way I learned in Thailand.  I'll show you."  

To please her, I laid on the couch.  To please her.   What wouldn't I do just to please her?

"Close your eyes."

I complied.

"I'm going to touch you on the forehead, okay?"

Yes, touch me again.  Heal me.  Take the memories and the dream away.  I believe you can.  Only you can.

Lightly, with one finger, she massaged a path between my eyebrows, moving from my forehead down the bridge of my nose and back up.  Gently, continuously, up and down.  My eyes felt heavy, too heavy to open.

She whispered, "Breathe as evenly and as slowly as you can."  

I was conscious of the deep, long breaths.  My lungs felt full and warm.  

"I used to do this with the babies who cried from hunger.  Put them right to sleep."

I listened to my breathing, and focused on her sliding finger, as she slightly increased the pressure.  I felt my eyes roll gently back into my head and, for once, the idea of sleep did not bring fear.

When I opened my eyes, light streamed through the window.  I glanced at my watch.  Good God, 10:30.  I blinked the sleep away and stretched the stiffness from my shoulders.  She was moving quietly around in the kitchen.  Waking up to Alice, I smiled.  What an easy way to start a morning.  

"10:30?"  My voice startled her.  She turned to face me.

"Good morning," she giggled, her smile as bright as the light from the window.  

"I can't remember the last time I slept this late."

"You must have needed it."

"Did you stay awake all night?"

She gave me a tentative smile.

"Well, to tell you the truth, after a couple of hours, I started to dose off.   So I booby trapped you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I tied a length of yarn to your wrist, pulled it taut and tied the other end to mine."  She looked proud of her ingenuity.   "I could still feel you, but at a safe distance.  You move: it wakes me.  You never moved.  You slept all night.   So did I.  I just untied us a couple of hours ago."   

She looked deliciously guilty.  "How did it feel to be tied down to someone?"

The words pierced into my waking heart.  Tied down.  Tied to Alice.  Connected.

"Did you have pleasant dreams?"

"I don't think I had any dreams," I sighed.

A dreamless sleep.  It was possible.  Because of her.

"Alice," my voice was almost timid.   "I wanted to ... to thank you for....no one's ever..."  Could I fumble this any worse?    "No one's ever stayed with me, after the dream.  It was...extremely...helpful."  Well that was articulate.  Just say it.  "Thank you."

"You hungry?" she said lightly.

"Yeah."  

"Good, I was just going to make breakfast.  If you'd slept another half hour, I'd have called it lunch."

I stretched again and realized I was standing there shirtless and still slightly sweaty from last night.

"Do I have time for a quick shower?"

She nodded.  "Breakfast in 20 minutes...."

I walked passed the couch, toward the bathroom, and caught sight of the length of yarn that had held us together.  Glancing back to make sure she wasn't watching, I scooped it up, wrapped it gently into a ball and squeezed it in my hand.

Tied down to someone.  Tied to Alice.  Truer than she knew.  Sweeter than I could have imagined.  

I felt strong when she needed me.  I felt warmth when she touched me.  I felt renewed when she smiled.  And in those moments when I dropped my guard enough to let her look inside, I felt safe. 

I felt again.  Because of her.

And being near her made me feel alive.

Until I remembered .............it was only for awhile.