Why would they do it?  It really doesn't make any sense. You would think that men of this age would have more experience, more discretion, more reason, that to treat other people in such a manner; such a manner that would make those villains that have permeated the earth and its cultures for centuries proud.  It is hard to fathom how a decision could be made, so hard and cold, like a reptile deciding when to eat, or sleep, or die. 

Those other men, the ones to whom the deeds were done, must have never seen it coming. Could they have?  Could they seen the hatred, the intention, the loathing in those eyes that strolled around them?  If they did, they must have thought that this whole life was merely a dream.  No actions or thoughts of men in the real world could ever go to such dark places as those that were about to be explored.  Those things took place only in those worst of dreams, the ones where you wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, sweating, the bitter taste of bile clinging to the back of your throat like some poison about to take you under for the last time. 

The room was, in contrast to its purpose, pleasantly lit. The warmth of the incandescent bulb, as the chemical reaction in its belly gave off heat and light in the most inefficient of processes was almost calming on the faces of the men.  The floor was cold and sterile, like polished asphalt with just a touch of morning dew, giving it a damp chill. The walls were simple and undecorated, made of mortared cinderblocks like a 1950s dive bar in Cleveland. It seemed like the most unlikely of places to be chained on one’s knees.  It seemed more like Aunt Gertrude’s basement after she passed from this planet and the years of accumulated newspapers and boxes had been cleared out so that a slick real estate agent could sell it to the highest bidder.

It was the sounds that turned the men’s stomachs most of all.  Nothing like a wretch or a direct threat, but more of a cold conversation. It seemed as though they were cockroaches, hidden in the crevices, subsisting on rotted wall paper glue, listening to a conversation they could not possibly understand, yet felt compelled to cling to.  Perhaps, simply through the act of listening and willing it to be, they could change whatever plans lurked in the minds of their captors into something less ominous.  A soft word, a head shake, a glance in their direction.  What were they saying? The smell, too, was difficult to bare.  The bleach was strongest of all, of course, but underneath it, something else.  Shit, urine, blood, vomit?  All of them? None of them?  Was it simply their minds becoming unhinged at the unknown thoughts of what could happen? Some random synapse in the mind sparking a scent, long forgotten, not really there, and convincing the little boy in his mind that the smell is permeating him from all directions.

Each man, none allowed to stand on their own two feet, was in a slightly different position towards the center of the rectangular room. Three in all, the first, his buttocks touching his achilles heels, his hands bound together and looped through the identical bindings on his behind his back.  The second, on his side, curled up in a forced fetal position, after a brutal kick to the ribs had doubled him over, and the third, as prostrate as his restraints allowed, murmuring some unintelligible prayer that the captors did not know.  The positions, even without the sight of the recent violence, were, in their own ways, painful. Mentally, they were being deprived of their freedom and physically their extremities were being deprived of any meaningful amount of blood flow.

Although it was not said in any way that made it knowable, the men were to be tortured, perhaps to death, certainly until they had said whatever it was that the captors wanted to hear.  None of them had any idea as to why they were there.  They had not been formally charged with any crime, nor had they been approaching their destination with any ill will to man or beast in their hearts. They were students, nothing more. Politically active and opinionated, traveling the world, hoping to find some explanation, some passable reason for the destruction, whether real or perceived, that was being inflicted upon their homes and their way of life, but simply students, nonetheless. Had there been some mistake in their papers? Some minor detail, overlooked until it was too late, that convinced the powers that be to detain these men and eventually take them to this place for this purpose?

Aziz raised his head, slowly as though it were a boulder, barely held aloft by the slightest of threads to look at the men standing around he and his two compatriots. They looked so formal, all in brass and wool; their trinkets and baubles clinking with each mechanical movement they made.  Whether by the looks on their faces, or by his mind going to those places where it dare not travel during the course of a normal day, he slowly began to realize what was about to happen to him.  Interrogation. Enhanced Coercion. Extreme Rendition.

Days go by.