Tears Of 84

Tears Of 84

I woke up with a start, sweat covering my whole body like the black veil of a Muslim lady, hiding me from the world. My heart thudding hard against my chest, as if it didn’t want to be a part of me anymore, wanting to break free; a shiver of fear sending sparks up my spine. I wrapped the blanket closer still, hiding under the comfort that darkness provides.

It had been a tough life these past days. So many in our village had been slaughtered, no not the hens but people. First came the jihadis, and killed in the name of Allah, then came the Hindus, and killed in the name of Krishna, and now the police, still trying to figure out in whose name they killed. I was 6 before, now I am 19 (or at least I can think like a 19 year old). Just 10 days that we had been running taught me what I might have learned in the next 13 years. They taught me how to live, no, how to kill.

It was my turn to keep watch while my family slept, Dad, Brother and my darling sister. Sleep is such a powerful weapon, it makes all the difference between life and death, but I found this out after I had lost it all. I looked around, but could not see anything. Creeping up to the shed where they slept, I heard the muffled cries of my sister. So the bastards who still hadn’t found a reason for their killing spree had found us. They were 3 of them; one held my sister and the other two my brother. Dad, where was he?

Blood oozed faster than the tears that rolled down my eyes as one of them slowly slit my brothers’ throat. He just sat there, calm and peaceful. She screamed till her throat betrayed her, I cried till I could not anymore. They took her along, I went in to see my brother covered in the same red color as my dad. Consumed by rage but held by fear I sat next to them, the gravity of the situation had still not sunk in, they were dead, I would not be able to talk to them anymore, not play with my dad, nor fight with my brother. I was alone. I am alone.

And my sister, the fact that even she existed struck me like lightning. I had forgotten about her, how could I? Grabbing the knife from the sheath attached to my dads’ thigh, I ran the direction they had taken her. A mile towards the fields, I found one of them bent over her frail body. I sneaked up slowly and let the blade slide into his back. Once, twice, thrice, till his back was black with blood and my face sprayed with the same. He screamed like a wild boar, arching his back, tears streaming down his face he turned, and then fell. He died, next to her.

I never thought I could kill, but now I can, and I will again. Till I can no more. I wasn’t a born killer; neither did I choose to be one. I don’t know if I am right or wrong, but I know I was wronged. I’ll find the other two and more.

Kill me before I kill you.