The Face of Death

The following text does contain examples of signifcant violence, along with themes of intolerance and war. It is a mature story that may be confronting for survivors of violence or victims who have lived in war-torn areas. Reader discretion is hence advised. In regards to the story itself, I have written it in a three-act nonlinear narrative format, which makes use of a flashback in the middle segment. It targets tertiary students through to mature-age audiences with the intention of highlighting war's harrowing nature.

A few faint tendrils of light slowly leaked through the crusty oak planks that concealed the outside world. Above me was a barren, rusted tangle of corrugated steel and wood, remnants of a once sturdy orphanage roof. As the beams continued to seep through the room’s boarded window, penetrating the chill, a square of cracked tiling beneath the old frame suddenly presented a welcoming seat. Scouring for any warmth available, I gingerly reached for the dim rays of sunshine and lowered my aching limbs to the fractured floor. Here, I could allow my thoughts to swim freely through the endless waves of emotion and anguish that were scattered deep within my mind.  

As I rested in quiet contemplation near the pitiful window, a musty scent saturated the confined space. the blend of mould, sweat and bile assaulted my nostrils, presenting a harrowing echo of those unfortunate souls whom had previously resided here. Yet, despite being unpleasant, this smell still managed to provide some comfort as it reminded me that others understood my situation. It delivered a flicker of hope, however miniscule, that I was not alone.

A steady creaking, from the room’s unhinged door, roused me from my thoughts as a burly man with an imposing stride entered. He was dressed head to toe in an intimidating white thawb while a disheveled, chest-length crop of charcoal coloured hair protruded from his pointy chin. Looking to his hands, a maze of scars traced the rows of enflamed knuckles: a road map of forgotten conflicts. The man slowly raised these damaged fingers to remove the opaque circles encompassing his eyes. That’s when I saw them. Staring back at me were the piercing blue pearls that forced water to erupt from my brow, despite the cool air. Suddenly my mind went blank, as those memories I had previously locked away burst from their safe, dragging me back into a blackhole of despair.

***

The golden sun beat the fractured pavement with an unrelenting tenacity as an array of insects and animals desperately sought refuge among the slowly receding shade of gnarled trees. It was clear that Kabul’s summer could not be denied.  Braving the harrowing rays of fire that emanated from above, my father and I sat by the hexagonal bricks surrounding our garden’s vegetable patch. Spindly tufts of green had begun to divide the neatly assorted rows, and I had been entrusted with the tedious task of eliminating them.

As I strained to win in my tug-of-war against the deep grip of imbedded roots, a familiar aroma of spices, korma and freshly baked naan wafted across the courtyard. It lingered in every space of the meticulously manicured shrubs and crumbling tiles that surrounded the garden. “Mealtime,” I gratefully sighed as a guttural rumbling bellowed from my stomach. Retiring from my battle with the weeds, I hurried towards the promise of a warm, appetising dish. A comforting ambience greeted me as I entered the dining space to eat. Between mouthfuls, I gazed at the caring figures around me. They were the only family I had ever known: a circle of support which I could always rely on. And, until that moment, they made this house feel like home.

A metallic screech pierced the air as we were finishing our meal. The sound, like a cacophony of un-trained musicians, caused me to avert my attention to the seasoned features of my father’s face. Initially, it appeared as though he had maintained that caring, loyal expression I had grown to admire. His cheeks were still round and full of life while a playful, wry smile rested precariously on his lips. The faint scar that was painted on that same grin was barely visible now, noticeable only by those who’d grown up around it. And yet, something was different.

Showers of sharp, splintered wood spurt from the front door’s ruptured frame as three militant men charged into our sanctuary. Again I looked to my father, realising that the change in his face, which I couldn’t place earlier, was actually found in his eyes. Those typically equanimous gems, that ordinarily showed only compassion and wisdom, had morphed into two widened saucers, accompanied by a pair of pin-prick pupils. A chilling trepidation seeped into my conscious as I began to understand what was unfurling. The intruders, two dressed in the Taliban militia’s standard black attire, while a third appeared in white, slowly approached our party.

“Aqad basaqt ealaa qabrik,” snarled the man draped in white, “I spit on your grave.” The imposing figures loomed over my family, all of whom had knelt submissively like servants before their master. It was a pitiful sight that inspired an involuntary wince, as I too fell on my knees. That’s when my mother made a mistake I would forever remember.

Surrounded, frightened and with no escape from our impending demise, the gentle woman lashed out protectively at the men. Claws bared like a ferocious lioness, I permitted myself to entertain the slightest hint of optimism that maybe, the assailants would be overcome by the zealous outburst. However, she never made it off the ground as one of the intruders drew his musadas, staining her cerulean burqa in a deep scarlet wine. What was once a canvas of innocence, would be forever besmirched by a single act of hatred.

As the disfigured human shell crumbled to the carpet, a tear slid down my cheek. It cut a track through the grime amassed from our vegetable patch, providing a path for the flood that would follow. Beside me my father’s face again changed, this time into a pasty look of terror. “Aqad basagt ealla qabrik, Hassan,” reiterated my mother’s murderer. The tip of his firearm was now rested on the wrinkles that littered my father’s forehead. Fear gripped me in that moment, like the roots I’d desperately tried to pull free.  And, suddenly, the man I adored also fell victim to the same screaming projectile.  In his place was a mutilated corpse, lying in a pool of crimson. The executioner removed his glasses. Staring back at me were a pair of piercing blue pearls.

***

Sitting in the decrepit room, I turned apprehensively to the menacing figure who had prematurely stolen my parents’ lives. The corners of his mouth were angled upwards, distorting his impassive expression with an intimidating grin. It was the face of death. Beside him the emaciated silhouette of the orphanage owner had also appeared with a vague look of pain masking his usually solemn expression. Seeing this, it became apparent that I no longer had to contemplate my reality. I had become a rodent, trapped in a corner. I knew what was coming.

“Goodbye Usama,” uttered the orphanage owner resignedly. “It’s time to move on.”