Monday, May 26, 2014

The bomb maker

He stood over the ruins of his life. Stood over what was left of it. The memory relentlessly thrust upon him, he fell back into his chair. Thinking, criticizing and going over all the tantalizing details of the event. He had killed 62 innocent people. No matter how hard he tried to register this in his mind, he could not let it pass through his consciousness. On another thought, he did this in the first place now, didn't he? He signed up for the inhuman act. He switched on the old television in front of him. It had lost all its lusture which was now converted to a thick layer of dust. "I was fucking desperate for the money"- he thought to himself. He slowly picked his body up, with the shameless strength and life left in it and walked up to his wardrobe. He picked put the belt he wore in his army uniform. He looked at it and laughed. Laughed like a demon, slowly the laugh dissolved into a howl. It came from the deepest part of his soul. He stripped down in front of the mirror and picked up his leather belt. Raising his right hand, he smashed it right across his back and it hurt him. He felt agonizing pain. That is what he wanted to feel while he thought of how he had made that monster of a bomb. How he had used science in a way that left the mothers crying and the children whining, with hands stretched out. Hoping their mother would hold it. All the men that were on their way back home, with their wives preparing their favourite kheer for dinner. He had peeled off all the skin from his back by now. It was bleeding, like the hearts of people who had lost someone, like the colour the mud turned into when there lay lifeless bodies on it. He'd gotten a new phone for himself with the money those bastards gave him. A new phone? He smashed the belt once more.

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