Revolution by Batool Hasan

The sound of distant footsteps echoes through the crumbling walls. Rebels standby scattered through the ghostly streets of District five. Night has claimed the sky though it ought to be midday. The sickening veil of chemical compounds lingering in the air should clear within a few weeks of isolation. 

The footsteps grow closer, soft taps on the dusty floor rhyme with his rapid breaths. She finally crosses the threshold as he emerges from behind the broken door. He tackles her roughly and clamps a sweaty hand on her mouth, the other pins her back against the wall. Her eyes bulge out of their sockets as terror fires sirens inside her head. She screams hysterically, but only muffled sounds manage to break through his meaty fingers. He leans in closer, his dark hair draping over her white-ashen face. Her glassy eyes roll to the ceiling in a silent prayer, but that only causes the blood coursing through his veins to boil higher. The scent of wild flowers radiating from her wreaks havoc behind his hollow eyes. The sight of muddy grime under his nails triggers bile to rise in her throat. He rips off her flimsy clothes before she can register the free movement of her arms. Pinning her even harder, her heart beats violently, almost vibrating the air around them.

He rapes her in the dark damp room with no regret. The same room she took refuge in from her father’s psychotic temper. He believed in the righteousness the rebels were bringing back into light, even when they took her brother hostage and tortured him until his breaths decided to retire. Her soul dies in the same room that once shielded her from her brother’s last words. She never knew she was being watched. She didn’t know about the boy who shared this room with her. The boy who saw his mother get dragged by rebels at 3 A.M; bloody and bruised. The boy whose father locked him in the dirty cellar for crying, for feeling pain.

Pain is weakness, he had hissed.

The same boy who wondered the peril streets of midnight December; in hopes of finding a place grubby enough to house his last days.

Death by starvation and dehydration, that’s what he had in mind.

The pain was consuming, it took its toll on the hinges of his consciousness. He was hanging by the last thread of hope he ever had when she came invading his ceremony. Her first visit had been brief; she hid some provisions and water bottles under stacks of filth before she had left. She couldn’t distinguish him between the human waste and pollution around him. Alarms in his head blared as soon as she had left, urging him to fight back. Fear of death kicked him in the hollow pit of his stomach.

He did not want to be saved.

She is a reminder of everything he hates.

She should’ve picked another room.

She deserves this.

He abruptly removes his hand from her mouth, fully aware of the stony look on her face, the empty gape in her eyes, the stiffness in her limbs.

He destroyed her.

These are the children of our revolution.

Leave a Reply