The Italian

Oh God. Things can’t get any worse.

Twenty years imprisonment. This can’t be happening.

We walk out of the airport and across to where the police car is parked. I begin to really panic.

They’re not going to put me in jail, are they?

They can’t.

I can’t be locked in.

My chest begins to tighten. “I didn’t do this,” I whisper as my vision blurs. “I swear to you, it wasn’t mine. I’ve never seen those drugs before in my life, you have to believe me. Somebody has put it in there. Check the security tapes. I promise you. It was not there when I got to the airport.” I dig my heels into the concrete. “I didn’t do this!” I cry out loud as people around us begin to stop and stare.

I feel a hand go to the top of my head, and I’m pushed into the backseat of the police car. One of the officers climbs in beside me.

The car pulls out, and I stare out the window with tears streaming down my face, but I can’t wipe them away because my hands are cuffed. I feel like I’m about to throw up.

What do I do? What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

They speak Italian amongst themselves and I have no idea what they’re saying.

Fuck, why didn’t I learn this language?

After what feels hours later, although I know it’s only a few minutes, we pull into a police station.

I’m lifted from the car and dragged through the front doors.

I go into panic mode and begin to sob uncontrollably.

“I want a solicitor!” I cry as I am bustled through reception. “I need a translator.” I glance up and see Enrico at the other side of the desk. He’s writing something. He looks up and his face falls when he sees me. His eyes dart to his co-worker.

“Cosa è successo?” Translation: what’s happened?

“Stava trafficando droga.” Translation: She was trafficking drugs.

“Cosa? Come lo sai?” Rico snaps. Translation: What? How do you know?

“Rico!” I cry. “Help me. Tell them I didn’t do this.”

“La sua borsa era piena, ovviamente colpevole,” the policeman tells him. Translation: Her bag was full, guilty as.

I’m bustled away quickly.

“Rico!” I cry as I try to crane my neck to see him. “Please, help me.”

I am pushed into an office and the door is slammed shut behind us.

* * *

Six hours is an eternity when you’re locked in a room.

Eeriness is lurking in the air. I stare at the wall through my tears, battling the silence, trying to quieten the sheer terror of what I’m facing.

Drug trafficking in another country.

I’ve been strip searched, interrogated, humiliated, and then… deserted.

Enrico le