I got a little carried away with this caption (meaning that it's a little long, and probably too small of a font to read properly). So I decided to go ahead and put the caption in this text as well, in case it's impossible to read. So here it is:
When we decided to go to Morocco on vacation a few years ago, my husband and I had a certain level of expectation. It was supposed to be paradise. The beaches, the culture...it was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. And I suppose it ended up like that, after a fashion.
The trip started out so wonderfully - my husband and I had only been married for a year, and we were very, very enthusiastic about one another. We were in love, and in paradise - what more could we ask for?
I guess where the story went off the rails was that second night. We'd decided to sample the local cuisine, and had asked the concierge for suggestions. Of course, he wanted us to go to the typical tourist traps, but we insisted on a real Moroccan restaurant. And so, we found ourselves in a part of town seldom frequented by tourists, sitting at a restaurant surrounded by Moroccan businessmen.
Maybe we should have picked up on it, but how were we supposed to know that that particular restaurant was a haven for the criminal underworld. They seemed like businessmen; really, they did. But they weren't.
Still, we made it through the majority of the meal without incident. We kept to ourselves, and so did they. And the food was absolutely terrific.
And then everything went terribly, terribly wrong. It all happened so quickly. One second, we were in a quiet restaurant, and the next, bullets were flying and tables were being overturned. Shouts in unfamiliar languages mingled with dying screams as my husband and I tried to curl up under our table.
When the restaurant went quiet, we thought we had survived. We thought that we'd gotten lucky. I was about to say something when the table was flung aside, and I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.
The man barked an order, but I couldn't understand. Finally, he hauled me up. Another man did the same with my husband. We were pushed into the middle of the room. A dozen guns were trained on us as a man in a dark suit approached from the shadows.
"You are Americans, yes?" he asked with an accent. "No need to answer. We have a problem, you see. This was supposed to be...secret. No one was supposed to survive. But you - you weren't supposed to be here, either. So, what are we to do with you? You may not recognize us now, but one day you will. And if you do, we are finished. But we do not kill innocents...usually. So, you see my problem, yes?"
I dared to speak. "We won't tell anyone. I promise!"
"If only I could believe you," he said with a hint of sadness. He raised his gun.
"We'll do anything," I shouted. "Keep us prisoner. Do whatever you want! Just don't kill us!"
And with that, our fate was sealed. If I had known then what I know now, would I have done it? I know it's been much harder on my husband. The level of change he's undergone...I don't know why they had to feminize him, but I know that it's been difficult for him. It's been two years, and finally, at long last, he's starting to come to terms with himself. He even smiles now. That's something, at least. Maybe they'll let us go soon. Maybe
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