Our lips were supposed to be sealed- not a whisper, not a whimper. Yet, amid the duet of the crickets and bullfrogs at the nearby field, a low mumbling of secrets crept in the wind.
We gathered as a platoon of newly-crowned, or rather uncrowned soldiers, deep in our cave and deep into the night. There was a golden rule of silence, of concentration in the imperative order for us to polish our tools, our impotent weapons of survival – the M16 - against the impending new sun.
Two bespectacled geeks made it three including me; one from the institute of the higher order (RJC), another from the notorious sect of misfires* (CJC). That left me as the small town kid (YJC) – always grinning, obliging. They were great company, courageous men. And yes, of course, the secrets; the tales so lustful, so passionate that our hearts melt, ears fluttered and throats dried. And in the tales told with eyes lit with imagination and memories, their illustrious conquers - of feminine egos and bodies - resided. And I sat, attentive in amazement.
In the shadow, the Sergeant – nicknamed Psycho - lurked and caught every word that seemed to fly in the night sky and glow in the silvery moon. The RJCian, blessed with sharp eyes and tongue, sensed his presence, turned to the CJCian with a look and sign; of closing danger, of corroboration against a common foe. Together in defiance, they chattered away. Together in grace, they invited me into their circle.
Alas! Psycho was to make his inevitable entrance as deathly silence fell with a shriek of “freeze!” At ease, yet not at rest were our hearts in our mouths as he made his round, as he ripped the air off to leave us breathless with every step. He stopped impeccably to face the RJCian with razor-sharp stare. As if he knew all along, or he had plotted for this day, for this downfall of the bad sheep among his troop. Does a foe become or is he made within the confines of the mind?
Threats were made - by no means were they empty – to coax, to con, or coerce a confession for breaking the code of silence. But no will was broken or bended, a sneaky snake the RJCian was. And the CJCian placed himself not far behind. Then the unthinkable happened, an act too barbaric, too horrendous to speak of or remember.
One by one, the shivering soldiers stepped up. One by one they unloaded their weapons unwillingly onto the RJCian’s outstretched arms. He sweated, puffed, and eventually pleaded half in tears for mercy under the weight of 15 or so firearms. Yet he never breathed a word of guilt or remorse. Yet nothing could hinder the sadistic act conjured only by a devil of a human soul.
A lighter was whipped out, put under a tired forearm to send a teenage-soldier into agony with a flick of a thumb. The cries were at first minimal, muffled by shock and pleas. The trembling forearms at first strained to hold up the load under the order of the flames, of Psycho. Within moments, the smell of burnt flesh filled our senses and consciences. Noone in the platoon moved, all paralysed by fear.
Then, everything stopped; the act, our fear and the RJCian's pain. Another Sergeant of the platoon appeared at the door, wiping off the grin from Psycho's face as he turned to him. A face frozen in time, a devil's face, not distinct, but I remember it all the same. I don't loathe anyone for having put us through that. I blame the circumstance, the wrong time and place we were at.
*CJC used to be known for their high teenage-pregnancy rate, that is why the term "misfires"
PS: Our lips are supposed to be sealed, but somehow some secrets seem to belong to the wind.
No comments:
Post a Comment