The "look"

I studied my environment, there was no where to go. I wouldn’t be able to escape . . . at all. I was stuck in this slavery camp until . . . well just until.

The habitat I was in (I call it a habitat because it has no right to be called a shelter) was just plainly simply a tin slap on a forked branched. I was huddled there with my only friend, Kimba. She was a fluffy white mouse. Kimba was small enough to escape the notice of the “guards”. The “guards” were no older than me. Except they held guns and had the “look” in there eyes. The “look” always scared me because it was so familiar, until I realised where I had seen the “look” before.

Grandpa use to have that “look”, but it had slowly dilated until his eyes had turned a milky white and he went into his endless sleep. He was always ranting about things, like the war and about death. What was death? I think I used to know because I had once had the fortune to step on a defenceless bug, wasn’t that death? I would also always wonder, which war, but now I know. This war.

The one I was stuck in. The one where boys no older than me already had the “look”. I’m now pretty sure what the “look” means. It means that they can kill, have killed and have had loved ones killed. Loved ones? I have no more (at least none I know of); Kimba has taken my heart and has still yet to give hers to me. Right now I’m curled up in a ball; Kimba taking in my warmth was sitting on my tummy. A large raindrop fell through a hole in the tin slap and landed on my shoulder. It seeped through the piece of cloth that I was wearing and made my back unbearably cold.

I was on my own, but I didn’t know why. My fellow prisoners were taken one by one to a different place. Where? I would have no idea until it was my turn. An older man appeared, maybe twice my age; that would mean he was 28. He grabbed my arm violently and seized me up. I, shocked, let him drag me through the mud, the bitter cold mud and the large drops of rain. When the rain hit it felt as in someone was stabbing you with pins. Kimba ran into my armpit and cradled there. I nearly laughed because it tickled, but I knew something bad was going to happen. So I hid my smile and tried hard not to eat the mud that I was being lugged through so aggressively. I frowned.

The man had stopped and had heaved me up. I looked down at myself through blurry eyes; I looked blacker than I was originally. I tried to glance at my surrounding, but was stopped by a slap to the face. I didn’t feel it though; my face was numbed from the weather. I cleared my eyes and stared at the person who had tried to hurt me. He slapped me again.

I knew it, I’ve learnt not to stare at them, and I didn’t know what made me forget. Even though we were under a tin slab and I was nearly dry caked with mud, I felt something trickle down my numb face. I slowly moved my tongue towards it and attempted to taste it. Blood, something I knew well now. Something I was naïve enough not to know about when I was captured. The man slapped me again and laughed. I didn’t know why, but then I saw his eyes. They say people’s eyes are the gateway to their souls. I believe it now, unlike when I was young.

I’m still young, 14 only but I have grown in ways no one could imagine. It makes me talk of myself 2 years ago as if I was only 3. I knew so little then, but I’m slowly growing up into what they want.

The man had crazy eyes, the one you’d expect old psychotic men to have. Yet, this man was only (about) twice my age and his face seemed normal enough. Normal wasn’t normal here, it never would be. If you were normal here, you’d be beat. Here you had to be “their” type of normal. Cowardly and scared. Most of my fellow prisoners didn’t have to fake, but I had to. They leave you alone (enough) then.

The man was laughing. Then he suddenly stopped. He picked up a gun and handed it to me. He pointed to something in the room. Something in a bag. My eyes widened as I realised what it was. A person in a bag. The crazy man pointed at me to my gun then to the person in the bag, who was now wriggling around. I glanced at the crazy man incredulously. He expected me to . . . kill this person? He repeated his gesture. I shook my head; I wasn’t going to kill a person! His eye’s narrowed.

He stripped off my cloth and pulled Kimba away from me. NO! I didn’t scream, I knew what would happen if I showed anything emotional. He picked a pocket-knife from his pocket and opened it up. He laid the blade next to Kimba’s neck. And with his spare hand he repeated his gesture that meant I had to kill the person. NO! NOT KIMBA! But it was too late, I had no choice kill the man in the bag or let him kill Kimba. I chose what I think was the right one.

I shot a person . . . The person I had shot lay on the ground writhing in pain. I ran, after grabbing Kimba from his hand. The crazy man had stopped moving and I realised I had made the wrong choice. I had killed him, I knew I should’ve aimed for his leg. I ran and I ran until I could run no more.

I knew I was well away from the dead crazy man when it hit me. The guilt of taking someone’s life. It was overwhelming, but I had to walk on. I trudged along in the cold, bitter mud knowing I would never be the same again.

I studied my environment, there was no where to go. I had escaped finally, but to where?

The habitat I was in (I call it a habitat because it has no right to be called a shelter) was just plainly simply a tree. I was huddled there with my only friend, Kimba. She was a fluffy white mouse. Kimba was small enough to escape the notice of the “guards”. The “guards” were no older than me. Except they held guns and had the “look” in there eyes. The “look” always scared me because it was so familiar, until I realised where I had seen the “look” before.

Grandpa use to have that “look”, but it had slowly dilated until his eyes had turned a milky white and he went into his endless sleep. He was always ranting about things, like the war and about death. What was death? I think I used to know because I had once had the fortune to step on a defenceless bug, wasn’t that death? I would also always wonder which war, but now I know. This war.

The one I was stuck in. The one where boys no older than me already had the “look”. I’m now pretty sure what the “look” means. It means that they can kill, have killed and have had loved ones killed. Loved ones? I have no more (at least none I know of); Kimba has taken my heart and has still yet to give hers to me. Right now I’m curled up in a ball; Kimba taking in my warmth was sitting on my tummy. A large raindrop fell through a hole in the canopy and landed on my shoulder. It seeped through the piece of cloth that I was wearing and made my back unbearably cold.

I was on my own and now I know why.

A puddle of water gathered before me and I looked into it. A blurry reflection that couldn’t be me looked back. It was covered in mud, had little to no hair, blood was dried all over it’s face. And it’s eyes.

It had the “look”.

This merely a fictionous story, nothing like this has happened to me or anyone I've known of. It is just a story based on some facts. PLease feel free to comment, this is the first, first person story thing I've done.