The last thing I remember before waking up was being thrown into an empty room. Soon, I had lost consciousness. My dreams consisted of more future-ish scenes, from me saying good-bye to my family to me dying. I hoped neither were true.

My eyes seemed glued together by a sticky, crusty residue. I tried to use my hands to wipe it off, but they were bound behind my back. I eventually got my eyes open, but it wasn't easy.

My vision was blurry and it didn't help that there was a small, barred window in the dingy room. I was still fully clothed, camo, padding and all. Minus my ammo and weapons.

I rotated my head so that I could see my hands better. There was dried blood and mud crusted onto the plastic wrapped around my wrists. I tried to break it, but I had no strength.

This was exactly what they had taught you not to panic about in boot camp. But, I couldn't help and agree with the sinking feeling in my stomach.

I heard the clank of army boots on floor, so I started to yell. My voice was raspy, but it was still loud enough.

"Get me the hell outta here!" I yelled over and over again. The clanking stopped right outside the door, and I could just see the shadow of a person seeping through the door.

A loud Iraqi voice shouted to what I assumed was another person, and then I heard something running off. But, the shadow remained.

"Get me the hell out-" The door swung open. The same man that had thrown me in here was standing there now.

"We are getting you water, pretty thing." His Iraqi accent was thick, and it was hard to understand him.

I snarled. "Unbind me." The man laughed. It sounded like a cross between a high-pitched whale noise and a snorting from an ox. I winced at the horrid noise.

"And why would I do that?" he asked, smiling a white, toothy smile.

"Obviously, I'm not going to go anywhere. I'm half-dead anyway. So why not let me die unbound?" I inquired, smiling as best I could. I felt the skin on my lips crack though, so I stopped.

"You Americans and your beliefs! But, very well then." He shouted something in Iraqi and a man rushed in. He was smaller, more stout. He cut the plastic off of my wrists, and I grimaced. I rubbed each of my wrists, and instantly regretted it: silver hot pain shocked my lower and upper arms.

The man laughed. I frowned. He turned and let a man with water through. I graciously accepted and drank the water slowly. It was like the Fountain of Youth for my dry throat.

I attempted to stand, but my legs were weak. Instead, I stripped off my boots my socks, my gear, and my shirt. I was left wearing a dirty bra and underwear. The room was hot.

"Stand up, pretty lady."

"Stop calling me that! And I can't! I need food! Or else I will die, and then whatever you want to do with me will have no purpose..."