Desert Rose by Laura Taylor

horrific events of that day.
    ** ** **
     
    "Can you hear me, David?"
    Seated cross–legged on his pallet, David retreated from the concern he heard in Emma’s voice. The guards had thrown him back into his cell after beating him black and blue with lengths of pipe for countless hours. And in the four days since, he’d refused to speak, refused to burden Emma with the truth of his most recent encounter with the prison’s interrogators.
    "David?"
    He focused inward, shutting out the sound of her voice. He pressed the back of his head against rough stone and mortar, kept his hands at his sides, and closed his eyes, but he could no more dismiss the mental images flashing through his mind of the hours during which he’d been tortured than he could control the trembling of his large body.
    "Just tell me you’re alright," Emma pleaded. "I don’t expect conversation, just a hint that you can hear me."
    He tried to ignore the desperation he heard in her voice. He took in a ragged breath, struggling for a calm that he doubted he’d ever feel again. Instead, his rage reawakened and roared through him.
    She whispered, "Let me help you. You’ve done so much for me. It’s my turn now."
    "No," he managed through gritted teeth.
    "I can feel you drifting away from me. David, please. I can’t let that happen. You’re a part of me. You always will be."
    He wrapped his arms around his aching ribs before lowering his forehead to his up–drawn knees. Self–pity assaulted him in waves, and he shuddered, not once but several times, and forced himself to nurse back to life the fragile speck of hope that was buried deep in his soul.
    "I know it’s hard for you to speak to me right now, but I want you to try. I just wish…"
    Giving into his need for contact with the one person he trusted and cared about, he asked, "Wish… what?"
    "I wish I could put my arms around you and hold you."
    "Me… too," he admitted haltingly, the tenderness of his jaw making speech an effort. But he forced himself to continue—for Emma and for the sake of his own sanity. He sensed that she was the only thing that stood between him and madness. "Talk… to me… babe. Need you… help me… forget."
    Emma didn’t hesitate. "We need each other, David. We’re a team. No one can change that." Tears filled her eyes, but she hastily brushed them away. "While you were gone, I imagined all kinds of terrible things happening to you. Some of them probably did, but I know you won’t tell me. You still think I’m a total cream puff, don’t you?"
    "No! Don’t… think that… at all."
    "Well, even though you’ve tried to protect me from what’s really going on in this place, my ears work and I have too vivid an imagination not to comprehend the reality of our situation. And I know from personal experience that…" Her voice trailed off as she thought, don’t go there.
    She sighed, the sound audible in the uncharacteristic silence of the post midnight hour. "You’ve shared your strength and your courage, David, often at your own expense. You’ve also taught me valuable things about myself. I know you're probably reluctant to trust me or to let yourself lean on me right now, but I won’t fail you. I promise."
    "Know that… already." Lifting his head, he squinted at his makeshift calendar and wondered if he’d have the strength to make the sixty–eighth mark.
    "I was afraid you wouldn’t come back to me," she admitted. "I can’t imagine being without you."
    He forced himself to respond, despite the pounding in his skull. "Bad pennies… always… turn up."
    "You are
not
a bad penny. In fact, I think you’re…"
    He frowned when she hesitated. "What?"
    "I think you’re very special."
    He savored her gentle voice. "Not special… just dented."
    "David, I’m so sorry."
    A harsh laugh escaped him. "Me… too. Talk about… something else." Gathering up what remained of his strength, he hugged his middle and slowly straightened. An agony–filled moan escaped