The Boy

And the boy crawls over the rusting haul noticing small drifts of powdery sand. He sees chips of old paint. He feels the heat of the dying day on his sun blistered back. Then the boot of his captain. Gnarled leather. Old. He feels a rough thin hand with no mercy grip him by the hair. The white pain as he is lifted off his feet. The fear. The fear. The fear. He can sense the anger leaking from the eyes. Or maybe they have no emotion. Maybe they do their deed with no thoughts of regret. Is that worse? Maybe more so the boy doesn’t have the time to spend thinking about it.

The boy isn’t yet thirteen.

He watched his father die.

They tried to make watch his mother raped. He refused to leave His own mind. And now with a silent scream he watches as a barbed hook slices through his tender cheek hitting and removing two teeth before being carelessly yanked out again. A loop is placed in the hole and cinched closed, then a gold chain through the loop.

After the dead eyed man’s job is done, the boy is dropped and kicked as the captain screams, “yok hatarak.”

And the boy knows he will try, he will try with all the red hot fury of revenge burning in his soul to make the words the captain spoke not true, he will not be sold and he will replace the gold chained loop with the scar of freedom.

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