A monologue from the play by Sam Graber
LINDSEY (forties)
There’s a language to torture. October 2001, I became a part of that language. The men at the forward operating base knew me as the human polygraph,
but their word for me was Piglet. They said Piglet, this is the room, where you interrogate. We’ll be down the hall if your questions bear no jelly.
I actually felt sorry for them, tapping electricity to genitals, cutting, music . . . music, whipping the soles of feet, more painful than you can imagine.
They got pretty worked up if who they worked over wasn’t forthcoming. Then on breaks, calling their loved ones: hey honey, how’s everything back home?
Then back for more enhanced techniques. I don’t care how tough you are, or how big the secret you hold,
after a week you’ll turn against everything you believe in to make it stop. You’ll try to starve yourself, drown yourself, but the men bring you back and start again.
They call that rounding. I never went down the hall to see it. Sound doesn’t get out of the room, but it can get in, and the hallway isn’t very long.
Well whatever it’s called, I never tortured anyone. But that never stopped me from wondering, what if I did?
