Retreat

#maryamvalis #newbook

At the jungle's edge, the night's waves grew louder. The sea, which had brought me such peace during the day, now seemed restless and full of fury. What had been calming sunlight turned into a force that filled me with unease and kept me on edge. Mark was fast asleep, trusting me to handle everything and to wake him if the situation demanded it.

Sir rested quietly in the shelter, where Mark had carefully set up the IV. He appeared restless, so I closely watched him, following Mark's instructions. After a while, he stirred awake and asked for a cigarette.

"With all due respect, Sir, I don’t have any," I replied, thinking he was serious. "Sir, are you in pain?"

"Yes, kid. But no man dies from pain."

"The Doc has instructed me to give you this," I said, holding up a syringe filled with painkillers as prescribed by the doctor. "Or should I wake him up?"

"If he instructed it, what are you waiting for?" he replied firmly, his voice carrying the authority of a commander. Then, softer, he added, "But don’t wake him. He’s likely more exhausted than I am."

Without hesitation, I administered the injection as ordered and even flushed the IV line to ensure the medication entered his bloodstream fully.

"Kid, open that damn bag and press my right sole. I’ve got a cramp, and I can’t manage it with my weakened abdomen," he commanded.

I quickly complied, massaging his foot until he nodded in satisfaction. Sweat poured down his brow, and his body glistened with perspiration.

"Sir, may I wipe your forehead? Should I bring an extra blanket for you?" I was worried about that.

"No, don’t bring anything. I’m fine," he replied as I gently wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth.

"Let’s suffer together. Drop and give me fifty," he suddenly ordered, catching me off guard.

I stared at him, confused and a little scared. "Now, Sir?"

"Are you questioning an order?" he said sharply.

"No, Sir," I answered quickly, stepping back and dropping into position to complete the fifty push-ups.

As I executed the push-ups, my mind raced. Should I wake Mark? What if something was wrong, and I wasn’t handling the situation correctly? But I couldn’t justify waking him without an apparent reason. I completed the push-ups quickly, then glanced nervously at the monitor. Everything appeared normal—pulse, respiration, blood pressure. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure how to interpret the readings.

"Are you feeling better, Sir?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes, Maverick. Don’t worry, okay? I’m a man—I can handle it."

"Yes, Sir," I replied, standing at attention, still uneasy but unwilling to show it.

"Tell me, Maverick, how are bad people? " he asked in a tone firm.

I sat down, keeping my gaze fixed on his face to ensure I could control him. When he stirred and tried to sit up, I jumped to my feet immediately to push him back down.

"Please, Sir. Doc said you need to stay in this position. He was concerned about the risk of bleeding," I said calmly but firmly.

"Yes, that damn Doc is right," he muttered, leaning back with a sigh. "But don’t dodge my question. How are the bad people you deal with? You only handle the bad ones, right?"

"Yes, Sir. Bad people," I replied, trying to avoid further discussion.

"And? How are they?" he pressed.

"They’re not bad, Sir," I said cautiously. "Most are just struggling with life. Some hurt others while defending their loved ones, and some are frustrated with life's hand. They’re trying to solve problems in their flawed way."

"Fucking lawyers!" he exclaimed angrily. "Always so quick to find excuses for criminals and defend their mistakes."

"Sir, I’ve found more valuable individuals in that so-called 'bad world' than in the 'righteous world.' Not all, of course, but some," I responded, meeting his gaze.

"More valuable? How so?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Some people try hard to stay true to their principles, to follow the right path. But they are judged for one mistake—something most outsiders fail to see in the bigger picture. It all depends on the perspective," I explained.

"Oh, so you’re the one who gets to see the ‘big picture,’ huh?" he scoffed.

"I’m here to alleviate their pain and defend them from being punished by those who see only the facts, not the context," I said, my voice growing more confident.

"You defend murderers, don’t you? What excuse could justify taking a life?" he challenged.

"The same justification a soldier uses in battle," I said before I could stop myself.

"What? Are you saying a local isn’t guilty of killing a soldier?" His voice rose.

"I’m saying no one fights without reason. A local wouldn’t act unless his home, family, or land were threatened, Sir," I replied, standing firm.

"And the soldier? Doesn’t he have the right to defend his country’s interests in this situation?" he countered.

"Both believe they’re defending something, sir. The soldier fights for his country, and the local fights for his home. Each sees the other as the enemy in war, but who’s truly guilty?" I said quietly.

He paused, then said, "Drop and give me fifty push-ups. Now."

"Yes, sir," I whispered, immediately dropping to the ground and beginning the exercise. Halfway through, he said again, "Stop."

I froze, confused, as he continued in the same commanding tone. "Now, inhale quickly and exhale slowly to a count of three. Begin!"

I followed his instructions as he counted aloud for me. "Inhale—one, two, three. Exhale fully. Inhale short—one, two, three." The exercises slowed down, testing my endurance. My muscles burned under the strain, but my breathing grew more controlled. By the end, I was no longer gasping for air, though exhaustion gripped me.

"Now," he said, "tell me about war."

"I have nothing to add, Sir," I replied quietly.

"You’re scared, aren’t you?"

"Sir, I’m only afraid of being misunderstood. That’s never my intention," I answered, clinging to my composure.

"Fine. Let’s stick to domestic matters," he said. "Tell me about the murders here—those who kill without orders."

"Every crime has a trigger. Nobody kills without being provoked in some way. Even a psychotic person perceives a threat, whether it’s real or imagined," I replied.

He scrutinized me for a moment. "How old are you, kid?"

"Thirty-two," I answered tersely.

"I’m sixty-two," he said with a smirk. "And I’m not as wise as you. Now give me fifty more, but this time under control."

"Yes, Sir," I said, bracing myself.

"When you learn to control your body with your mind, you’ll be unstoppable," he said, almost as if to himself.

"Sir?" I asked, unsure of his meaning.

"Listen, kid. Right now, your body is controlling your mind. You’re simply reacting to its needs—breathing faster when you need more oxygen, your heart racing when you're scared, and so on. But if you want to survive, you need to flip the script. Your mind must take command, pushing your body through any challenge with absolute control. When you master that, my job will be done. How quickly you achieve it depends on you—but rest assured, I’m not giving up on you." His tone shifted again to one of command. "Now, inhale—one, two, three. Exhale slowly. Please don’t hold it in. Get that brain working! Inhale—one..." After a while, he fell asleep. I checked his wound, which had dried as Mark instructed. Then, I covered him with a blanket and sat by the fire, staring out into the dark toward the sea, though there was nothing to see.