Desperate

Note: Not what I usually write, but there's a first to everything. So enjoy, my friends! - Morphobia AKA Jaera


There were sounds. Screams, shouts, gunfire. Men were falling in the streets, blood filling the clogged gutters close to where she stood. Overflowing at her feet, staining her toes and simple rush slippers. In her hand she held a pistol – her father had given it to her. With instructions. And although she was frightened, she had to do what she had been told. Her fingers tightened around the butt of the gun, the cold metal slipping against her sweaty palms. Her heart was thumping like the bullets from a machine gun, hitting against her chest at an alarming rate. But somehow, underneath it all, she felt deadly calm.

She did not wince as she saw her village men killed in the line of fire and duty. She did not cry when infants set up a wailing chorus of confusion. She did not hear her mother, her friends, call her back. She had to do what she had to. No one could stop her. Not this time. Not now.

She was ready to tremble, but her hand was steady. Fingers cocked the pistol, ready to fire. The gun was raised, her target in perfect sight. Still, she paused for a moment. No one noticed her, standing in the middle of the chaos and dead bodies; no one knew what she was going to do. There were more shouts, from the side of the British. She tucked her dark hair behind her ear with her free hand. Now was her chance, and she would take it. Her mind was now clear, but she could not think. Where had the gun come from? She had forgotten. Why were they killing her people? She did not know. Was it because they were different, because the British wanted this land for themselves? Because they had different coloured skin? But she remembered what she had to do.

“Come on, men! Wipe them out! They’re not our people!” The man in the red suit was shouting. What was he saying? She cocked her head to one side, thinking. Dressed in simple animal hides, she thought he looked silly. And the silly man would die; for her father told her it would be so. The gun was now at her side; she raised it again.

And fired.

“For the people!” The first shot took the man onto his knees. All he heard were random screams, and he could not understand them. But he understood the hate in them.
“For my father!” The man turned, tried to stand, when the next bullet took him in the chest.
“For the village!” She shot again, grazing the Briton’s shoulder. She did not realise it, but tears had begun to pour down her face.
“For our freedom!” She screamed, and then it was over. The gunfire stopped, but she did not. She continued shooting at the man’s already lifeless body, until there was no more ammunition left. Still, she ran to the body, kicking, screaming.

Someone scooped her up. British, she could tell, by the smell of his clothes. She bit and punched, screamed and kicked. And sobbed.

She was only five.