Questions

The smell of sweat and filth and festering flesh crowds my nostrils.

         I plug my nose like the rest of them, but it’s hard to hide the giddiness.

         Lines of shivering, hollow-faced innocents stretch farther than the eye can see. They wait, hopefully, expectantly, for help that will never come. “Your bread will never come!” I want to shout. “Your blankets will never come!” Their despair makes me smile.

         It started not long after the war began. At first, there were just small pangs in my stomach. I had no idea what they meant. Soon enough, the horrific scenes being played out in my life began to make  me feel--happy? Desensitization, I thought. It’s nothing more than desensitization.

         The desire to cause pain came later. I should have recognized the importance then.

         Now the urges are almost constant. I realize, in my rare moments of lucidity, that I should tell someone, but I can’t. I don’t know who to trust. I’m not the only one that’s changed.

         I head for our tent. Closing my eyes, I navigate through the dusty path I’ve travelled along so many times. I hum loudly to control the urge that’s sweeping over me.

         “Look at her,” an orphan whispers. “Is she crazy or something?” The orphans, eager to laugh, snicker loudly. My eyes snap open and my hands aren’t in my control as they flail and find targets. I have a steely-strong grip I’ve never noticed before. The screams of the terrified children add to my euphoria. Now they lie still, breathing death rattles.

         The last orphan, who made the remark, stares up at me with wide eyes and whimpers. My hands close around his throat.

         After he’s gone still, I respond to him.

“A child can ask questions that a wise man cannot answer.”