Imprisonment and InterrogationMature

Krasimir came to, very, very slowly. He had a headache, and he was hungry. His chest hurt terribly, but he could feel something wrapped around his waist: probably a bandage. Though he had opened his eyes, he couldn't see anything, and he soon became aware of a bag round his head. The air smelled strongly of cats. Krasimir clenched his teeth: he really didn't like cats.

He was going to remove the cat bag from his head, but his hands were somewhere behind his back and were tied together. He was already feeling a sense of doom when there was a noise, and before Krasimir could register what it was, the cat bag was ripped off his head, nearly taking his glasses with it.

He was in a dark room, not unlike the basement rooms where prisoners were sent for political re-education in the scarier police films he had seen. The walls were made of dark stones, it was dimly lit, the only furniture was the chair Krasimir presently sat on, and standing in front of the metal door was a Gestapo-looking police officer.

–Where am I?– was his first question.

–In one of the City's interrogation rooms,– replied the officer. –I'd like to ask you some questions.

–Go ahead.

–Krasimir Dulka,– said the officer, –You were arrested on the scene of a major insurrection, and for attacking a policeman. Other prisoners have recognised your face, named you, and cited that you were one of the main leaders of this insurrection.

Remain calm, though Krasimir. The feeling of nervousness that had risen up inside of him was exactly what the officer wanted.

–Not guilty.

–Is that so? The other prisoners recalled your secret meetings by the docks that you held, and the fact that you have hacked into several government files.

Krasimir hoped no fear had shown on his face. He raised his eyebrows. –I can assure you,– he said, –I don't know what you're talking about.

–Don't bother feigning innocence with me.– The officer glared at Krasimir. –We know that you are the leader of this insurrection, and you're going to tell us who else is involved.

–You want a list of people, or something?– laughed Krasimir. –Everyone considered 'working-class' is part of my insurrection.

–'Your' insurrection. Interesting.

You called me the leader, officer.

–Well, are you?

–I could be anything.

–Krasimir,– said the officer, –We already know your position. All we need is your confession. You've been caught, if you don't know already, because of your own stupidity and willingness.

–'Willingness'? Sir, I was unconscious.

–Well, why were you there in the first place? Because you're stupid.

Tactic 1. Use insults to get the victim on the defensive and possibly reveal some information. –Yes, sir, you're right,– said Krasimir, playing along, and very glad that he had looked this up when he was free. –I am stupid.

For a moment the officer looked very surprised. –Yes, you are,– he said, –You're a pretty useless individual all round, aren't you? You and your proletariat friends, if you can count any of our current prisoners your 'friends', since they told us so much about you.

Krasimir agreed. For another four hours, the officer interrogated Krasimir in every way he could, by guilt-tripping him, trying to invoke fear and regret in him, insulting him, and finally shouting at him. Krasimir bore all with not the slightest bit of regret or fear, and revealed nothing about his friends. Because, as he told himself quietly, his dignity did not matter in the face of the Revolution.

Eventually the officer, exhausted, impatient and angry, leaned against the wall, panting, exhausted from an hour of screaming at Krasimir. –You know,– he said between breaths,  –You're looking at an execution for treason.

–In America, maybe.

The exhausted officer's eyes went very wide, so Krasimir elaborated. –We don't hold the death penalty here, officer. My punishment, if you can actually prove me to be guilty, would be life imprisonment, probably a better fate than setting me free...at least I'd have a roof over my head and three square meals a day, and all at the State's expense!– And Krasimir gave a high-pitched laugh.

–And on top of all that,– the officer said, –you haven't even mentioned your regret about attacking a policeman.

–'Attack'? Who attacked whom, exactly?

–You, said the officer coldly, –attacked me.

High cheekbones. Noble profile. The same slight stubble.

Something buzzed in his pocket, and he went over to the cat bag and stuffed it forcefully over Krasimir's head. Krasimir heard the door click.

A couple of hours later, the ambient temperature inside the cell began to fall.

The End

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