Continued from part 1
And the boy comes. He crawls over the rusting haul. He notices small drifts of powdery sand. He sees chips of old paint. He feels the heat of the dying day on his sun blistered back. He crawls into the shadow of the living decay.
The boot of his captain presses him down to the deck plating. Gnarled leather bites into his flesh.
Old ancient smells drift to his nostrils. Rot. History and death.
He feels a rough thin hand with no mercy grip him by the hair. The white pain as his head is lifted against the foot on his neck. For a moment he thinks he is going to be killed. His neck snapped. Thrown in the desert and forgotten. Good maybe, that’s good. Life is not fun. It is pain. He hates his every waking moment. Joy is a fantasy he once had. Or maybe that was just dreams. Now he is just the fear.
He can sense the anger leaking from the eyes above him. Or maybe they have no emotion. Maybe they just are. A thing like a mountain or the wind. A force of energy.
Maybe they do their deed with no thoughts of regret.
The boy isn’t yet thirteen.
He watched his father die.
He watched his mother raped then her neck slashed and her pain and fright as life ebbed from her body. How he wished so hard they would do the same to him.
And now with a silent open mouth scream he watches as a barbed hook is brought down to his face. It slices through his tender cheek hitting and removing two teeth before being carelessly yanked out.
The gnarled boot is lifted. His hair is released. He is kicked and the captain says, “yok hatarak.”
And the boy knows he will try, he will try to do better with all the red hot fury of revenge burning at his soul.
Continued with part 3