Fiction
Between dreams . . .
It is a cold night. He is shivering in the night as bomb blasts are heard in the distance. If he listened carefully he would swear he could hear the trickle of blood as it flowed down the expanse of the vast land they were fighting for. His breath ragged; with a mighty cry he raises his gun and fires upon enemies. In a haze of atrocious actions the enemy falls with a face devoid of emotions while a bittersweet feeling sweeps in him for fighting for a much bigger cause. But in a matter of heartbeats the scene is broken as he wakes up in bed sweating and panting. The moment is lost and he can no longer grasp the exhilarating feeling of moments before. Is there shame in hiding? He asks himself in the safety of cocoons as he shuts his ears against the ongoing cries of war. Does it make him less of a man that he only holds his gun in a tangle of dreams caught between consciousness and slumber. Is his wife at fault for his not risking himself? He feels the weight of the world upon his shoulders and sometimes in the dead of night where there are no dreams at bay, he is a traitor in his eyes. This time it is hot and sweltering. The paint on his face is dry and his hands and legs are ragged as he crawls upon the hard surface. The rifle on his back is heavy but it is a comforting weight. The sun is high and he glances around himself to look at his comrades. They are facing forward, concentrating hard on the landscape before them. He can sense emotions warring on their faces, threatening to break to the surface but cannot ascertain to what they exactly are. Is there fear? Pride? Resolution? Anticipation? He thinks so because they echo his own. He can still hear the call of war ringing in his ears. His stomach twists with a pleasant feeling, to fight for freedom. Freedom. It is worth lives. That is his last thought as dawn breaks and reality sets in. He wonders what she thinks. His wife is tinkering in the room packing the last of their clothes. They will be leaving this village. He hears it is too dangerous to stay here. Sometimes he pretends he stays for her sake. He is after all protecting her. But is he really protecting her? He stops his thoughts from spiralling downwards. Because he knows, he knows all are feeble reasons created in the canvas of his mind to excuse his inaction. On the third time he dreams of his childhood. He and his best friend were stealing mangoes from the tree that belonged to the crazy old woman. She was not really crazy. Well, at least he did not think so. She caught them while they were stealing from her and managed to grab his friend. He did not think and reacted on the spot. He had run away. He stops with the excuses and accepts he is a coward. He can fight but does not. So this time he blames God for making him weak. It is not his fault. It is never his fault. After all, if the Almighty made him stronger he wouldn't cower. The war rages on. He wonders who will win. He and his wife have managed to evade enemies so far but he fears their luck will run out. His wife is crying and has been crying since they came across a mound of dead bodies. They seemed young and he wonders whether they were fighting in the war. Did they die happy knowing they had fought for something that was definitely worth fighting for? When he saw them he was rather glad that he was not among that pile of bodies. But now he wonders differently. Is he in a better place? A living coward instead of a dead hero? What if the war is lost and oppression continues. Would he live in servitude or wish he was dead? He prays that the war is won. It can be won without him; after all he was just one man. What can one man do? He ignores the fact that one man has already changed their lives. It happens on an unremarkable day. He hears gunshots closely. Too close for comfort. He hears shouts and cries and the pitiful sobs of frightened and broken women. His wife is wide-eyed, asking him silently about what they should do. He does not answer, he cannot. He is frozen in fear. He wants to run, wants to hide but he just sits and watches. He watches as the door is broken down and demons in the skin of men barge in. Watches as they grab his wife by her hair and drag her out of bed. She is screaming and pleading with them but they pay her no heed. He already knows the outcome. The bloody mess his wife would be in. Perhaps they would show mercy and just kill her. He does nothing when a rifle is pointed at him. The demons are speaking but he cannot hear. It is just like his dream but this time there is no weapon in his hand. He will not die fighting. He does not beg for life. His smile is grim and twisted as he realizes that he is about to die but is not begging them to let him live. He looks them straight in the eye and shots are fired. This time he does not wake up.
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