The shackles binding my arms and legs to the chair scour my blistered skin to a bloody mash.
Firm hands clasp my hair and forcibly lower my head.
Ice water envelops my face, flowing up my nose, devouring my head whole.
A thousand pinpricks of pain spark across my raw cheeks. Panic wrings the air from my lungs, and it climbs my throat, claws of desperation sinking deep.
Fingers wind tighter through my tangled hair, raising me to the surface.
Above me, my interrogator shouts in French, "You are a spy! You are an agent of the Special Operations Executive!
You are the American, Betty Sweeney!"
"Non," I gasp, catching my breath. "Je m'appelle, Adele Blanchard."
"You worked with the British agents, Denise Langford and Timothy Bishop! Where are they?"
"Je ne connais personne de ces noms." I know no one by those names.
"You do! Who is assisting them?"
"Je ne sais pas." I do not know.
My head plunges, displacing jagged chunks of ice. The sting becomes excruciating, as if my face has been turned inside out.
"You do know them! You will give us their locations! You will tell us where the weapon drops take place!"
I spit a mouthful of water on the fIoor in the direction of the shiny pair of army boots I see there.
I draw in a long breath. Down I go again.
Garbled voices bounce back and forth above me.
I strain against the chains, screaming on the inside. Fear eats what little oxygen I have left.
I am about to drown. There is nothing I can do about it.