United Nations Office, Geneva, Switzerland
Late September 2016
It was a mystery as to why Petra ever had an official office in Geneva. She hadn't been in it in a year and was, at this point, afraid to go in imagining that some gnarly, dusty, cob web monster had set up shop between the stack of five to seven box high case file maze. In reality, it was regularly attended to by the cleaning staff who were given specific instruction not to move her work, but to just tidy up around it. She had an assistant, albeit one who she had never met, that made sure everything stayed organized by year and mission.
Despite a slight sense of annoyance at being called in by her superior, she was somewhat happy to see him again. They had worked closely on her first mission to Africa in the DRC and, though she was a little bias, she thought of him as a good person, professional and honest, who was good at his job. Not to mention, he was decent in bed, at least from what she remembered.
“Petra, Jean's ready for you now.” She was distracted. She stared out of the window and at the front drive where the flags of the one hundred ninety three UN member states were raised side by side. No matter how many times she saw it, she couldn't help but be filled with a sense of pride for her work and work of her peers. She was startled out of thought when she felt a hand gently touch her shoulder. She turned and saw Jean's assistant and gave her a little smile. Petra ran her hands down the front of her suit. She hadn't worn business attire in God knows how long. She followed the assistant back into his office and stopped about five feet from his desk.
“Petra, long time no see,” Jean said. He went to her and gave her a soft hug. She didn't return it. “Please, have a seat.”
Petra took one of the chairs directly in front of his desk and took a moment to look around his office. On his desk were pictures of his wife and two kids.
“Wow! Your kids are really growing up! How's your family doing?” She asked, attempting to make small talk.
He returned to his seat. “Uh, they're doing well.” He paused before pulling out one of his desk drawers. He dug around for a file and when he found it he brought it out and plopped it on his desk. “Do you know why I asked you here?”
“To tell me what a fabulous job I'm doing and that I've been promoted?” Said dryly.
He cracked a smile. “I read your UNISFA report on the situation in Abyei. You did good work there. Lives were saved due to your influence and --” She had to cut him off there.
“I didn't do anything. The displaced citizens and the military personnel have all the credit. They worked hard together to establish security there. My TEAM and I just helped them organize a bit.” She put her elbows on her knees and leaned forward.
“Well, regardless, we've started reducing the military presence and the SPLMs are withdrawing.”
“We've still got a ways to go, but yes. Both good signs.” Petra was all business.
“I heard what happened to you back in February. How's your shoulder?”
Petra slouched back into her chair and sighed. She grabbed her right shoulder with her left hand and rolled it around a bit. “It's doing ok, surprisingly. There's a huge scar where the medic thrashed the stitching, but after a month of healing I was able to start rehab. I'll never have the mobility I had before, but the doctor's say I'll regain most of it. I still get some pain, but it's good.” Petra had her own way of dealing with the pain.
___
By early 2016, UNMISS or United Nations Mission in the Republic of South Sudan was getting ever closer to completing its mission of bringing peace and security to what was the newest country in the world. They had reduced the number of military personnel from eight thousand to seven thousand. It was something to celebrate, which was why Petra's oldest pal Melanie, a French nurse who was then working with Doctors Without Borders asked her to visit. Being stationed in Abyei, she hadn't had a chance to explore much, so Melanie had promised to give her a tour of all the new development that had taken place in recent years. To end the tour, Melanie drove her out into the desert and away from the capitol to introduce Petra to the family of Sudanese that had been hosting her stay there at their ranch. Before long it was night time and Petra was asked to stay over. Everyone knew you didn't travel at night in these more remote areas, as cattle raids and tribal conflicts were still fairly common.
To make a long story short, Petra woke up a few days later in a makeshift doctor's office. When you were this far outside of the city, you were lucky to be treated in a tent on a cot AND have a 'physician' that had, in addition to a basic understanding of first aid, the know how to stitch you up and put you on a morphine drip. They usually only trained people in how to administer shots for malaria and tuberculosis.
She looked down at herself and her surroundings. She felt woozy and could only see out of her left eye. 'What the fuck,' she thought. She had a bad headache and when she tried to sit up pain seared through her right shoulder and side. She howled in agony, at which point the doctor came rushing in, gently pushing her back down.
“Now, now. Calm down miss.” He had a big-toothed grin.
“Wha... what the fu....ck happened t'me?” Her memory was fuzzy.
“You don't remember, miss? Two nights ago you were staying in a farmhouse not far from here. It was attacked by cattle thieves. You and the rest made it out safe, but you were shot in the shoulder by a loose bullet. The driver, an older French woman, crashed the car. In doing so, you got a few cracked ribs and a small bump on the head!” She didn't like how he was explaining it so joyously. She reached up to feel her face and head. This 'small' bump had caused her right eye to swell shut. He reached for her IV and adjusted for more morphine.
“Well... where is everyone else?” She asked.
“They were taken to other facilities, but don't you worry! We'll fix ya up real nice!” The morphine hit her and her pupils dilated before she slowly drifted back asleep. That was her first taste, and boy, was it delicious.
___
“I can't believe Melanie got you involved in that.” Jean looked concerned.
“It wasn't her fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cattle raids are totally random.” Thinking about it made her itch. Not only was the morphine a fix for the physical pain, but it helped to dull the emotional pain as well. The drug didn't discriminate. Years of being witness to torture, rape, children killing children... all was forgotten with one simple injection, at least temporarily. She only had that unnamed doctor to thank.
“Well, do you think you'll finally settle down now?” Petra was confused by his question and she didn't answer right away. In the past it would have been a firm no. He knew that from when he tried to embark on a serious relationship with her six years prior. While she had always been focused on her career, she had always wanted children and it wasn't a secret to him. “I know in the past you were too concerned with your job, but you're twenty nine. If you still want to adopt, there's no better time than right now.”
“Oh, here it comes.” She was a tad on the cynical side.
He sighed, remembering how shitty her attitude could be at times. “Petra, you've been requested by the New York headquarters. One of their inter-governmental aides to the USA abruptly resigned and relocated to Canada. Given your extensive experience in allocating workers, aid, and funds to the different UN missions, they think you'd make a perfect replacement. Not to mention you started out there as an intern before your time in the DRC.”
Petra didn't respond. She had refused to take a desk job her entire career, believing she was needed on location at the various missions she was chosen for. Though Petra had made sure never to give up too much information, she knew it must have been prompted by her UN mandated therapy sessions. She rubbed her face with her palms before standing. Knowing she wouldn't have a choice in the matter she started to turn to walk out of the office.
Jean stood and rushed to catch up with her. He stood in front of her to stop her. “Look. You've seen enough. You've lost enough. It's time for you to take a break. This will look great to the adoption agencies! It's your chance to have the child you always wanted. You'll look much more stable this way.”
While she couldn't deny that fact, the thought of being relegated to a single place, let alone in a country of utter abundance, depressed her. She looked down and gently nudged him aside before exiting the office, and then the building.
She got a text from him minutes later. You start in January. Take care of whatever you need to take care of.
When she got back to her apartment later that day she went to the bathroom and stripped. She looked at herself long and hard in the mirror. She leaned forward and squinted her eyes. She was looking for something, but wasn't sure what it was. She reached for the medicine cabinet and once open she stared at the contents for a few seconds. She pulled out a small, zippered black bag and set it on the counter top. She looked back in the mirror then back to the bag before grabbing it and heading to her bed.
She sat down with the bag in front of her for a few seconds before unzipping it. She pulled out a syringe and a small glass bottle that read 'Morphine Sulfate,' and set it in front of her. She took the cap off the syringe and the vial, tilted the bottle upside down and pushed it through the rubber cap. She pulled the plunger back, and filled it with just over one hundred milligrams of liquid. Last, she attached the needle and cleared any air bubbles.
Petra took a deep breathe and put her legs out straight in front of her. She pinched the muscle of her left thigh, stuck the needle in slowly and administered the drug gradually. When she was done, she laid back and closed her eyes.
___
Roughly four months later she was in her office in New York with a headache. She pressed the intercom on her phone to call her assistant. “Hey Adam, could you bring me some ibuprofen please?” He was a well groomed young man. Always quick to respond if she needed anything, but not the sharpest tool in the shed either.
The assistant walked into her office moments later with the pain killer. She nodded her head in thanks before downing the pills as quick as she could. When he didn't walk away she looked up at him. He smiled down at her. “Hey did, you hear about the news on twitter?” Even though she had never really been one to personally use any form of social media, he asked so excitedly that she had to bite.
“Nope. What is it?”
“People keep saying there are real life zombies! ZOMBIES! Can you believe that?!” He was almost bouncing with joy.
She raised an eyebrow. “Come on Adam. That's just a hoax. The net is full of stupid bull shit like that. You don't need me to tell you that.”
“I know, but it's fun to entertain the idea!” He winked at her before turning and practically skipping back to his desk.
A few minutes later he popped his head back in. “OH BY THE WAY PETRA.” She rolled her eyes at his volume. “You have a meeting Thursday with some guys from DC. They want to discuss some funding thing with you.”
“Finding funds isn't my job... just deciding where they go.”
“Well, you can't cancel. It's handed straight from the Office of the High Commissioner.”
___
Thursday came quickly. The two men weren't in there long before he heard Petra yelling. He winced. It was too bad that two big, strong, good-looking men had to deal with her attitude, he thought. Ten minutes later they each had one of her arms and were carrying her out.
“Hey! What's wrong with her? Where are you taking her?” Adam kept up pace behind them to the elevator.
“She complained about a migraine then passed out. We're taking her to the hospital.” Man One answered nonchalantly.
Adam furled his brows and stood with his hands on his hips. He was confused.
___
The first seven days in the white room were the worst for Petra, but seemed to whip by in a blur.
Either the facility staffers hadn't done their homework, or Petra had just done an excellent job of keeping it quiet. They were constantly in and out of her room that first week to tend to her withdrawal symptoms. No one had anticipated having to deal with a woman that had been abusing morphine for several months. It wasn't fucking pretty. She required round the clock care, and several times her condition was touch-and-go.
On the eighth day she opened her eyes and found herself staring at a white ceiling. She rubbed her eyes before sitting up in he bed. She couldn't think about where she was or how she had gotten there. She merely stood up and started moseying around the room, checking the place out. It had a small kitchen, with fully stocked fridge and cabinets and a small bathroom with sink, shower and toilet.
Her first clear thought was 'Man. I'm hungry.'
There was a small table in the center with one chair. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and a granola bar from one of the cabinets and sat down to eat. Completely forgetting everything she had ever learned about dehydration, she took it all in much too fast in an attempt to satiate her hunger. Five minutes later she was heaving over the toilet. When she was done she fell back against the wall, exhausted. When she felt a little less queasy, she shakily brought herself to all fours, reached up to turn on the shower, and climbed in, clothes and all. Being in the shower had always made her feel better when she was sick or hungover.
Thirty minutes later she walked out, undressed, dried off then went out into the room to look for clothes. Tucked in the corner at the foot of her bed was a chest with a few drawers in it. It seemed to be filled with mostly under garments, t shirts, and yoga pants. She just grabbed what was at the top and put it on. She collapsed onto her bed and went back to sleep.
The next day she was much more lucid. She finally walked over to the door and discovered it was locked. She yanked and jiggled the handle and even screamed at the door, but it wouldn't open. When she finally gave up she noticed an intercom next to it. She pressed the button and leaned in really close.
“Um... hello?” There was no answer. “What's going on here? What's happening? Why am I in here? Why can't I get out? Who are you?” She paused. Still no response. “I'm a human rights officer for the United Nations! You can't keep people locked up like this!” Screaming now. She continued on with the same thing for several days, angry at this situation. Angry she had been taken. And what for? Why was she being held here? No one offered her any answers.
Three weeks in she started to notice things. Her food and water supply never dwindled. When she left out a dirty dish or clothes, they were always picked up, clean, and put away before she got the chance to do it herself.
The worst thing about being in here was that there were few distractions. You were always left alone with your thoughts. It made her itch for a fix. Three weeks with nothing!
One month in she made the conscious decision to resign herself to it, temporarily. Yes, she was being wrongfully imprisoned, but she wasn't suffering, unlike many people she had seen before. Maybe her calmness was the result of the mandatory therapy sessions the UN made her attend. She had never done much talking, but did do a lot of listening. She tried to remember other coping strategies the therapist had given her. This was going to be a good chance to get clean and to set her intentions right again.
Eat healthy on a regular schedule, exercise every day, never skip a dose of medication, get eight hours of sleep a night, journal, meditate. She grinned wondering what the doc would have said if she knew about her 'medication.'
There was one shelf fixture in the room. On it were various books, out of date magazines, several empty composition notebooks, and several pencils that had been filed down to no more than four inches long. She had never paid much attention to any of it, but she went to go grab a notebook and pencil before sitting down at the table. She drafted a routine.
Eat small meals every three hours. Regulate your blood sugar. Drink plenty of water. 30 minutes of cardio a day followed by 15 minutes calisthenics. 20 minutes of reflection or meditation every day.
The routine kept her sane in the months that followed, that, and knowing that even though she was alone in this room there were others out there. Whenever she had a bad thought or memory about her life, she wrote it down. Needless to say she went through a lot of notebooks filling them with memories from her childhood and experiences she had in her time with the UN. Over time she realized that being imprisoned here had probably helped her a lot. She got clean, mentally and physically. All of the guilt and resentment had been devouring her, but in here she didn't have to worry about any of that. She'd never truly forget any of it though, would she?
One day she woke up from a nightmare drenched in sweat. She went to shower and change and when she came out she noticed something was different. The room was dirty and hadn't been cleaned in a while. There were dirty dishes on the counter and clothes on the floor. She tied her hair back and walked over to the com.
“Hello? Anyone out there?” She didn't ALWAYS get a response. When she woke up the next day it was the same and continued on the next and the next. Always no answer. No sound. No meditation this time. No breathing exercises. Fuck that. She started to realize something was seriously wrong. The anger and resentment that had disappeared these last months returned at the thought of being alone. The fear and rage set in. She felt a sort of strange passion that she hadn't felt in years, similar to the passion she had as a youth to 'save the world,' except this time it was about saving herself. She started to tear her room apart. Maybe that would get them to notice.