Young Writers Society

I had never seen him so weak, so out of control. As he walked towards me I saw through his eyes, the still stare told his story. I knew what he had to say, I knew what he felt but had no idea of what pain he was going through. As he stood only a few paces from me he raised his head, facing me. His eyes were now changing, they now questioned me, asking me why he had been brought here, why his arms and legs had been shackled and like a dog he was dragged through the streets, asking me why his 15 year old son was beaten senseless all whilst laughter was echoing the empty alley.

Ali walked closer to me we now stood but a few inches apart, his face was close to mine. I could smell his breath but I felt no life init. He stood and stared at me, time went by…seconds, minutes whatever they were seemed like forever. Like a rabbit in headlights I stood backed against the wall still as if any movement I made would make the situation worse. Worse...how could it possibly be worse? Would Ali cry in front of me? No, no he did not. He sighed, smiled and then walked back down the long alley turning at the end jut before the corner he spoke.

‘I’ll tell Hassan you send him your best wishes.’

I returned home that night numb of feeling and emotion I did not know what to feel. My head and heart were confused and conflicting. My mind drawing me to logic, I had to remain useless I could not have helped or I would have felt the wrath of the rebels but my heart was crying that night. It cried for Hassan pain, it cried for him as he screamed out for his mother, a mother which he not seen nor felt the presence of in over 14 years. Each kick to his chest and each blow to his face made him call out. As I lay in bed I was afraid to close my eyes for I knew what I would see, the scene of what had happened would appear before me I would have a nightmare, I did not know at the time but this nightmare would repeat itself every dark night for most of my adult life.

My past is far too evil to recall or repeat; every second of my life I see red. I see red all over, the image of Hassan as he looked up at me haunts me, on dark nights I hear the sound of his last cry, the very last breathe he took and then the sound of his body falling. I didn’t believe in spirits but I do now, about others I do not know but Hassan’s spirit comes to haunt me. Each time I see his face it’s like a dagger through my heart, I relive that night over and over. I am trapped, I need redemption, I need to free myself from my past but it draws me back holds onto me., I have visited numerous psychiatrists but Hassan refuses to let go.