Tatyana lay staring at the ceiling, which was sooty and with flaking plaster. She had opened her eyes just a moment ago and was wondering where she was. Her mind was heavily clouded for some reason. She felt pain in many places and was tense.

She remembered her name, which was a good start. Then she recalled that she was a journalist on assignment in the Middle East, sent to gather information about the recent unrest. Yes—she was supposed to find out whether civilians were being subjected to violence by the factions trying to overthrow the government. But something had gone terribly wrong. What exactly?

She tried to lift her head but couldn’t. Her neck felt locked in an iron grip. Panic seized her, and she screamed—but stopped quickly as the pain intensified.

New memories flooded her mind. She had entered a village and was talking to locals through a translator. Then, suddenly, shells exploded, and cries of the wounded and dying echoed all around. Fragments of shattered buildings flew through the air.

Then darkness. When she came to for a brief moment, she saw the translator lying beside her, his chest torn open, eyes bulging in terror. Then more darkness—heavy, suffocating, soaked in agony.

The smell of disinfectant made her realize she must be in a hospital, though it wasn’t normal for a hospital ceiling to be blackened and crumbling. She shivered in fear, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Where am I? What have you done to me?” she asked in English. To her horror, she couldn’t move her arms and legs.

A dark-skinned young woman in a white coat appeared and began explaining something in a language Tatyana didn’t understand. She seemed anxious.

Tatyana grunted in frustration to show she didn’t understand. The woman frowned, hesitated briefly, and then hurried out. When she returned, she held up a mirror in front of Tatyana’s face.

Tatyana was horrified by her own reflection—her deathly pale skin and dark circles under her eyes. But when the mirror was tilted downward, far worse things appeared. Her half-naked body was covered with bruises and unhealed wounds. External fixators protruded from her pelvis. Metal clamps gripped her outstretched legs. Heavy weights hung at the foot of the bed. Her arms were immobilized in wire splints.

There was only one conclusion: she had suffered fractures of the pelvis and both legs. Her arms were in slightly better shape, maybe.

She began to sob pitifully, and the nurse stroked her forehead compassionately, murmured something, and left.

The pain became unbearable, and with screams she begged for painkillers. Then came sleep—a merciful escape from the torment.