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TITLE (EDIT)
Soldier & The Insurgent |
DESCRIPTION
Kidnapped soldier confronts his Abductor
[1,147 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Drama |
AUTHOR
Kabbash |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Retired Investment Banker who wrote while travelling
[September 2007] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1)
Barbie's With A Twist (Poetry) Poetry about Barbie dolls [1,147 words] [Comedy]
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Soldier & The Insurgent
Kabbash
The slap of the sandals across the hard dirt floor echoed the terror in the soldier�s heart. The stench of the kidnapper filled the soldiers nostrils before the first words reached his ears. The soldier tried to move pushing backward into his chains and the wall, repelled by the approach of imminent death. His body began to sweat adding to the sweltering heat. The soldier raised his bruised face in the direction of his captor, listening for the inevitable curses and ravings.
�It�s time to die.�
The soldier�s heart instantly raced his sweat poured freely from his forehead absorbing into his dirtied blindfold.
�I don�t deserve to die.�
His voice cracked over his split and blooded lips.
�Yes you do invader.�
The kidnapper spat out the last word, the soldier feeling his hatred.
�Not invader. I came to help, to liberate.�
The soldier�s words were stronger than his trembling body.
�Then why do you kill my people, destroy our homes, hold us hostage to our beliefs.�
The soldier knew he was going to die, such strong feelings would demand his death.
�I don�t kill innocent people, I didn�t destroy your homes, and I don�t begrudge you your beliefs. I came to help, to save you from a murdering dictator.�
The kidnapper lashed out with his foot, connecting it with the face of the soldier, spinning his body to the floor, his momentum stopped only by his chains.
�You lie! YOU killed my family and my son with bullets, bombed OUR home�our home to rubble, and you hate Islam, Christian crusader.�
The kidnapper spat on the face of the soldier, yanking him to his knees.
The soldier rushed out his words his last chance of survival filling the room with his pleas.
�You are the terrorists not me. You kill everyone! How can you be a man of Islam when you kill yourselves?�
�Shut up Christian dog! What do you know of the glories of Islam when you see us only through the sights of your guns!�
The soldier heard the strike of a match, the flare of the flame and smelled the sizzle of phosphorus. He tilted his head as cigerette smoke filled his nostrils and the cold nozzle of a gun pressed into his skull. He heard the bolt of an automatic weapon locking into place.
�Please don�t�not now, one more day please.�
The nozzle nudged the soldier�s skull then was pulled back. The soldier heard the padding of his captor�s sandals, then the scrape of a chair across the dirt floor. Seconds later he felt the heat of the cigerette smoke across his bruised face.
�You should have died days ago crusader.�
The soldier knew the truth of those words. He was supposed to have died, but he hadn�t. His executioner, this man postponed it.
The soldier felt the filter of the cigerette part his split lips. He pulled in a long drag, holding the smoke deep within his lungs, focusing on the pleasure of sensation before exhaling.
�Tell me more of your family, your children.�
The soldier had spent days talking about them and thought his abductor would want no more.
�What would you like to know?�
The soldier dangled the cigerette in the corner of his mouth. He had learned to talk this way over the past four days.
�Your little boy�Alex�tell me more of him in that place they play in.�
The voice of the kidnapper was distant. The soldier�s eye�s watered behind the darkness of the blindfold. He knew he wasn�t supposed to talk, to say anything beyond his rank, name, and serial number. Still his captor liked to hear of his children and it took his mind off his impending death.
�The playground is filled with children, all running, screaming, and smiling with happiness. They swing from swings, climb jungle gyms, and chase each other playing a game called tag under the sun.�
The kidnapper closed his eyes picturing the playground as he sighed deeply. �Alex he is eight and like most boys likes to chase the girls or run from them.� The kidnapper pictured his son Ahmed, about the same age, being chased in such a way. The image exploded into bits of blood and bullets. His eyes began to water. He pulled in a chunk of air and expelled it slowly through his nostrils.
�And what do they do when they catch each other?�
The soldier squeezed his eyes tighter focusing on the last time he saw his son in the playground. He pulled in another drag of the cigerette, again blowing the smoke out.
�They start the game over again.�
He heard the kidnapper chuckle as the chair he sat on fell to the dirt floor.
The soldier felt the hard hand of the kidnapper yank him to his feet, and heard the chains that bound him fall to the floor, releasing him from the wall. The soldier felt the nozzle of the gun jam into the spine of his back, pushing him forward. The soldier felt his cigerette bump into a wall forcing the stub further into his mouth, the embers singing his lips.
The soldier felt the cuffs come off his wrists, heard them fall with a thud to the floor. He moved his arms in front of him, rubbing his wrist. The soldier spat out his cigerette as he heard the fatal click of the bolt locking into place. He felt the nozzle of the gun against the back of the skull, heard the slam of a door, and felt the warmth of the sun on his face and body. The soldier reached up and yanked his blindfold down, wanting to see the sun before he died, but its rays were to blinding and he squinted his eyes.
�Run now crusader, run to your freedom, run for your son.� He felt the poke of the gun on the back of his head urging him forward. The soldier didn�t move, afraid of his death, more afraid of the consequences of his freedom.
�But why? Why let me go?�
The kidnaper lowered his gun.
�Because Habibi, your son is waiting for you at the playground and mine are waiting above. Because I am tired of this war and the game of�catch. Because I miss my family too.�
The soldier heard the crack of the rifle, the sound of a burst of bullets, the thump to the floor. He turned and saw his kidnaper laying dead in a pool of blood one hand holding a tiny Koran, the dead mans finger wedged between pages. The soldier picked up the tiny text holding it close to his squinting eyes. He noticed the underlined words in Arabic, above them English penciled in.
�Children are the light without which darkness covers the heart.�
The soldier closed the holy text, placing the book in his pocket next to his own heart. He turned and started to run and with each step toward his freedom his tears dried in the heat of the sun.
###
THE END
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2002 Kabbash |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
September 2007 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1524
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