The most Beautiful Person I have Ever Met.

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“The Most Beautiful Person I Have Ever Met.”

 

Sharna; with long, wavy black hair.

Sharna; with soft brow eyes.

Sharna; the most beautiful person I have ever met.

They took you from me.

Now I kill them.

 

It was a quiet day in town, most people, scurrying to hid from the midday heat, had retired to their houses. I was out at the stall in the market, selling bric-a-brac, and trinkets to gullible passers by; but business had been slow this morning, and the sale of a single, brass, incense-burner was simply not enough to keep my wife and three kids clothed and fed. Again, I trudged home, amidst cows and stalls, young children and old men, with too few takings for the day; curse the gap between rich and poor!

That night I lay awake; what was to become of us? Our small family, surviving on nothing, living in little more than a falling pile of brick and timber?

 

Suddenly, a blinding light was blast in the window.

“Allah?!?” I yelled out, as a rumble of thunder shook the ground. There were people in tongues, yelling out in a foreign language I had not heard before.

“Allah?!?” I started to pray.

Then, deafening booms shook my concentration.

As I realised what it was, I got up, and ran into the next room, roused Sharna, and woke the kids.

This was no god. Evil was in the air.

No god shoots people.

 

Sharna and I ran to the backdoor, pushing the children between us. I yanked the curtain – our makeshift door – aside, and stumbled into the night. The children were crying; they were frightened by the commotion.

We kept moving; tripping over homeless people, through alleys, with no knowledge of where we were going. Blind.

We were passing through a tight ally way between shops, when a rifle-bearing soldier appeared in front of us. He had funny eyes, and was bellowing something in his native tongue. We backed away, only to hit metal.

Metal that had not been there before.

I looked up. The grey truck was enormous, but that was not what frightened me the most. It was the large, black barrel of the gun I was staring into that shook me.

“Don’t move!” I whispered to Sharna, as she eyed the identical weapon that was facing her.

“Don’t move!”

Then we heard a shriek behind us.

They had taken the kids.

“NOOOO!” screamed Sharna; she turned and dashed towards their tiny retreating figures.

She didn’t even get five paces.

As she ran, bullets ripped into her head and neck, snapping her like a twig, tearing hair from skin, and skin from bone.

The most beautiful person I have ever met is now lying dead in an alleyway, blood pouring from her.

 

After checking my ID, the soldiers just walked off.

Leaving behind them the life-times worth of pain they had created for me, as if it meant nothing to them.

 

And they wonder why, now almost one year later, I am about to become a suicide bomber.