The Decision Part 1

The Decision

“Marcus! Hurry, or we’ll be late!”

I slowly opened my eyes, blinking a couple of times to adjust to the sunlight seaming through the window. I swear I had pulled the curtains down the night before. I stared at the window and watched the dust particles perform a tango, the sunlight acting as their stage light. I turned to my left and let out a small, high-pitched whine. 8:00. It was Friday, the day that I was  forced to go to church. It was the same routine every week- get up at 8:00, arrive at the secret place by 8:15, and wait until the others showed up by 8:45. I hated going to church. Father set a new level of boring whenever he spoke at church, which was every week. I complained to him once that his two-hour sermons were too long. I couldn’t sit for a week after that. I lifted my legs and rotated them to the right side of the bed. I used the momentum to lift my torso as the legs crashed to the floor. I scratched my jungle hair a few times, slipped into my worn, blue slippers, and slid to the bathroom.

The service was more excruciating than ever, because the fan on the ceiling was broken and the temperature outside was 40 degrees Celsius. Not to mention that I was stuck between two very stinky, fat ladies who wore weird aprons across their mouths. I leaned forward occasionally pretending to pray, but was rudely interrupted by the two overly religious ladies every time. After what seemed like an eternity, my father addressed the congress to bow and pray. I smiled as I bowed my head, the shadow cast over my face covering my smirk.  As we drove through our front gate, I untied my choking tie. I jumped out of the car like a frog and leaped towards my most cherished possession: Soccer ball. But before I could blast it to the moon, Father beckoned me to go into the living room. The soccer ball screamed for my foot for a kiss, but I knew better than to disobey him. I mumbled under my breath, making sure that Father could not hear me. Strangely, Father seemed too edgy today; something was wrong. Usually he’d place his dress coat with extreme care on the hanger, embrace mother by her waist, and kiss her. But today, he merely threw the coat over the couch. He didn’t embrace Mother, let alone kiss her. In fact, Mother seemed more anxious than usual as well. They marched into the kitchen and whispered to each other. I tried to eavesdrop, but their voices were too small. I took a gum out of my pocket and let the flavor coil around my tongue and wind in between my teeth. By the time Father and Mother entered the living room, the flavor was gone. As they sat down across me, Father held my mother’s hand and reached out for mine. He smiled but I saw through his glistening white teeth and realized that I was too mature for my own age. I saw fear; not the kind that a child may feel after a nightmare, but the kind that makes even the bravest to collapse and crushes the strongest spirit like dried clay. My father opened his mouth to speak, but all I saw was a dark vortex that led me to his soul; it was cracking from the core.

“Marcus, there’s something I—something your mother and I need to tell you,” whenever my father addressed mother to tell me something, it was never good news.

“The United States declared war on Iraq today. They will reach Baghdad in a few weeks. This means that the Iraqi government is on the lookout for any and all Americans.”

I wondered why we needed to worry. We weren’t Americans. I mean, I lived in Iraq; all my friends were Iraqis, the clothes I wore were traditional Iraqi wear, and I ate Iraqi food. Iraq was my home. So why would our government search for us?

“The United States has warned all tourists and foreign residents to evacuate immediately,” father continued. “But Marcus, your mother and I—we are going to stay here; because we have dedicated our lives to the Lord, and we are willing to die for His name’s sake. All we can do now is pray and let God continue to work through us. We just have to trust in Him.”

I nodded at that time, not wanting to be another burden for my mother and father. We held each other tightly as father and mother’s tears drenched my hair. I didn’t understand what they meant when they told me that they had dedicated their lives to God. My thoughts drowned from my father and mother’s voice as they sang Amazing Grace. It was more sobbing and choking than singing, but I didn’t object.

Two weeks passed by and I was yet again forced to get up and prepare for church at 8:00. After singing five songs, my father walked to the podium and stood majestically in front of the congregation. He reminded me of Jesus, because I remembered that Jesus also often spoke among hundreds, even thousands of people. Just when Father started to pray, the doors of the building crashed inward, a cloud of dust rising like smoke as the doors collided with the ground. Before the dust settled down, strangers with bandanas across their faces marched in, each armed with an ak-47 rifle. The strangers didn’t give us time to stand up or move back. As soon as they saw the Bible in my father’s hands, their rifles were released like dogs upon an injured deer. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, hoping that when I open my eyes again, the strangers would disappear. When I opened my eyes again, a small object hit my forehead. I blinked a couple of times and looked down. My stomach screamed and my throat burned as my morning eggs and toast burst through my mouth. It wasn’t enough to submerge the eyeball that was now merely floating in a puddle of brown vomit, the pupil staring straight at me. I looked around to search for my mother and father, but all I could see was a vulture’s buffet. Tears smudged my vision and I crawled on all four, trying desperately to grab my mother’s smooth hands or touch my father’s porcupine chin. A shadow cast around me and urged me to look up. I yearned to see my parents, but I only saw a sandal. I flew across the dirt floor, blood rushing out of my nose like a flash flood. The pain was mind numbing; it blinded my vision and drowned me voice. I turned to see the podium, but it was empty. I looked back at the strangers and saw that they were pounding my father with the rusty butt of their rifles. I stretched my right hand, a few drops of blood falling down at the tip of my index finger. He was so close, but every time I grabbed at him, he was a mile further away. Then they shot him. Over. And Over. By the time they were done, my father’s body was a bee’s nest, the honey oozing out from each hole. The sand filled my mouth as I crawled towards him. I was an inch away from feeling his scraggy beard when my right hand was pinned to the ground by a rifle barrel. Before I could writhe in pain, I looked to my right to see one of the strangers dragging Mother by her aesthetic, silky, black hair. She flung her arms like she was possessed, kicking, scratching, and biting at anything that was in her vision. She landed a kick at the man who was grabbing her hair, which only earned her a shot in the head. I grabbed my father’s suit and screamed my lungs apart. A hand grabbed my shoulder and tore me apart, sending me flying once more. I coughed for air as I impacted against the red floor. I looked up to see four mysterious faces and four slender, hell dark barrels pointed at my face. I tucked my chin towards my chest in a last attempt to see if there were any other survivors who could save me. I was about let my head drop when my eyes caught sight of a figure. I wished I was blind. It was Uncle Mohamed, one of the first Muslims that my father had converted to Christianity. Suddenly, everything made sense- why he stopped attending the services since last month, why I often saw him drive to the mayor’s office, and why he was shaking hands with the leader of the murderers. I visited his home and ate with his family at least once a week. He taught me how to make a sling shot out of a metal scrap and few rubber bands. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike. He broke his arm trying to save me from a raging cow. Not only did he betray his people and my family, but also betrayed me. I trusted him for over five years. He broke my trust in less than five minutes. His eyes met mine for a split second, and before my eyes shut, I could have sworn I saw a smirk.

The torturous light forced me to blink a couple of times before my eyes could adjust. Pain struck me like lightning as I tried to lift my head. I looked to my right to see a needle stuck in my arm. A transparent tube lined the needle to a bag filled with invisible fluid.

“I wouldn’t pull that needle out if I were you,” a strange voice remarked.

I turned around to see a brown man with a scrubby beard and a nerdy glass. He measured my temperature and stared at a weird computer-like machine that was attached to my chest and head. He read some numbers on the screen and quickly scribbled some illogical codes onto a notepad.

“You are one lucky kid you know that?” He chuckled.

“What… What’s going on? What… What happened?” I scratched my head, but immediately withdrew my hands when pain bit my fingers.

“You tell me. How did you survive six bullets to the head? You must be luckiest kid alive!”

Or the unluckiest. “How did I end up here? Who brought me here?”

“A few people near the shooting site heard the commotion and searched the building after the soldiers left. You were the only one that survived the raid.”

The pain multiplied by the hundreds as the image of Father and Mother dying replayed through my head. Over and over again. The bed seemed to shake along with my body.

“There’s a U.S. military post about 15 miles from here. I’ll arrange for them to come pick you up as soon as you are able. But for now, you need to get some rest. I’ll come check in on you in about 6 hours. If you need anything, just press the red button on the right side of the bed.”

As the door slammed shut behind the doctor, so did my eyes. The images of my parents’ corpses were consumed by another image: Uncle Mohamed. The sight of him made my stomach churn and my head explode with insuppressible pain. The bullets shot through my head on a repeat. I pulled the blanket over my face, hoping to assuage the pain at least a little. No use. The more I thought of Uncle Mohamed, the more my head hurt. When I pushed the blanket off my face, my eyes were blood red, tears trailing down to two puddles on either side of pillow. That’s when I realized that Arabs were never trustworthy. They may act like your family in the beginning, but as soon as they seize the opportunity, they will abandon you as if you were a rotting meat. The doctor’s words about the U.S. army post stopped the tears. The teeth stopped gritting. Einstein would have been jealous at the speed of my mind working. I would leave the hospital as soon as possible. As the doctor mentioned, the US army would then most likely take me back to America. When the time is right, I would enlist in the army. I would come back here once more. I would find Uncle Mohamed. His death would not be swift.

The plane ride was as boring as my father’s sermons used to be. I didn’t sleep during the 15-hour flight from New York. The thought of my M-16 aimed at Uncle Mohamed’s forehead made my spine send an electrical pulse throughout my body. The plane landed at the same post as the one that arranged my flight to the U.S. Back then, the soldiers were demons, monsters, and giant ogres. Every time I looked at their guns, I winced from the pain that shot through my head. But that was ten years ago. I was one of the demons now. And I would make sure the Arabs know. I’d walked about twenty paces when a soldier in his 40’s wearing cheap sunglasses stood in front of me. He was a tall man, shoulders broad, and a blotch scar on his right cheek. His uniform was flawless, as if it had been cleaned and dusted a few minutes before.

“Private Newman?” He grabbed the left joint of the sunglasses and pulled it to the tip of his nose.

“Private Marcus Newman, reporting for duty sir!” I dropped my equipment and switched my M-16 over to my now free hand in order to salute.

The officer waived my salutation as if he was swatting a fly and extended his right hand. “Lieutenant Trowman. Now pick up your crap and come with me.”

I gathered my belongings and followed the Lieutenant like a duckling. I had walked less than ten paces when my ears twitched. Two soldiers sitting on the ground around a worn apple crate. They were playing what seemed like poker, but what provoked me was the cheap, static radio that stood on top of the crate. The cackling voice from within was barely audible, but the tune was crystal-clear: “Amazing Grace”. My father used to sing it to me every night; that is, every night he was alive.  I sang that song every day before I went to school. I sang it when I woke up after a nightmare. It was with me when I walked to school. It was there when I read the Bible. It was there when I ate. But then it disappeared along with my parents. Uncle Mohamed stole it from me. I walked toward the crate. The two soldiers looked up, their faces smeared with confusion and frowns. I picked up the radio and with it scored a touch down. The soldiers’ eyes patrolled between the metal scrap and me, trying to comprehend what exactly had happened. Before they could speak, the Lieutenant yelled from behind, “Newman! Get over here! You can flirt with your friends later!”

I saluted the two men and proceeded to my original destination. Seven minutes later, we arrived at a tent with numerous ammunition packs and sandbags covering the exterior. The Lieutenant lifted the sheet doors and jerked his head towards the inside. He sat behind a desk that looked as if a blind carpenter made it.  The top was piled with contour maps and as he pushed them to the side, he knocked over the inkbottle, unleashing a river that slowly drowned the maps. The Lieutenant cursed and took out a tissue box from behind the desk. When he’d cleared his desk, he realized that I was still standing and growled at me to sit across him, obviously still mad from his careless mistake. After clearing his throat, he spoke, “I’ve looked at your records and I must say that I’m quite impressed.”

“Thank you sir,”

“You were in Afghanistan a month ago correct?”

“Yes sir. For eight months.”

“Yes, and after only a month of training… Newman, you should be the one sitting behind this desk right now!”

“I didn’t join the military for promotion or honor, sir.”

“Then what did you join for, Private?”

“To kill some towel heads, sir.”

“Ha, good answer, Private,” The Lieutenant smothered his cigar and leaned back on his chair. “Tomorrow, we’re sending our full force into Baghdad. It’ll be a long day, so get some rest for now.”

“Yes sir,” as I made my way through the sheet door, the Lieutenant called back for me.

“Oh, and one more thing Private,” The Lieutenant was off his seat and was already an arm’s length from me.

“Sir?” I looked back, a little puzzled.

“Be sure not to kill any civilians.”

“Well sir, that’s a given isn’t it?” I spoke confidently, but avoided eye contact.

The Lieutenant looked at me as if I was a lab rat. “Private, must I remind you why you have been transferred from Afghanistan? Or the real reason why you’ve never gotten a promotion?”

I gritted my teeth. For a second I pictured the Lieutenant sprawled on the floor with his nose obliterated. But I knew if I blew this mission, I’d never be able to hold a gun again.

“Understood… sir.”

“Look out! More enemies at one and three!”  were the dying words of my platoon’s leader before his liver splattered on my face. Dude, I just pressed my jacket this morning! I wiped the blood off my goggle and leaned against the sandbag. I held my M-16 closely to my chest as I closed my eyes and controlled my breathing. Bullets zipped past my face and shoulder, one of them leaving a trail of blood on my right cheek. The commotion died around me. The sand whipped against my face less harshly. The stench of corpses around me ceased to bother my nose. The more I cleared my mind, the more aware my senses were. The Muslims would have never guessed that the air currents that followed after their bullets would expose their positions. Two on second floor, around 11, a loner on first floor at three, and another two on third floor around 1. With eyes still closed, I raised the machine that would exact my vengeance and leaned it on the top of the sandbag. One shot. Four more to go. If my ears were still on my side, the two at 1 would run out of bullets in less than six seconds, and the two at 11 would be out in eight seconds. These Muslims were amateurs like the normal kamikazes, which meant at the longest, each would take about four seconds to reload. However, each Muslim would be frustrated, as they have been firing at a single Marine for over 20 seconds now, hopelessly trying to shoot through the 22-inch sandbag; this would lead to an increase in blood pressure and heartbeat, which leads to slight flinching of the wrists, and finally forcing them to either make a fatal mistake of dropping their loaded magazine, or sliding the magazine into its pit after two or three tries. At the least, the reloading time for the Muslims would be increased by another three to four seconds. Plenty of time. I picked up a second M-16 from one of the corpses and leaned both guns on my shoulders. Four, three, two, one. I stood up, stretching my elbow parallel to the ground. I whirled around, the right arm lifted at a 55 angle and the left arm at a 45 angle. Four, three, two one: Sector cleared.

As soon as the reinforcements arrived, I advanced further into the street. It was the same street that Uncle Mohamed used to live in, but he was nowhere to be found. Yet.  The sooner I killed him, the sooner I would satiate my lust for vengeance. I had taken less than twenty steps when my feet were tied by a faint whimper. I followed my ear and turned to my left. The near-inaudible whimper had come from the building with the two enemies on the second floor. I curled my fingers repeatedly at two of the reinforcement comrades and marched towards the building. It took a lot longer than I expected, mostly due to the broken cement tiles that were sprawled across the pathway and the rookies that followed behind me. The front door was made out of cheap aluminum roofing metal with rust covering it like moss. I motioned the two soldiers to be in position to the left and right side of the door. I wiped the dirt stain from my goggles and shrugged my shoulder to reposition the gun. A sweat drop trailed down my right cheek, seeping through the bullet scratch and burning the inner flesh. My left leg coiled to my chest and sprung back against the door. The door crashed inward, the part that absorbed the impact caved in. I turned the flashlight at the tip of the barrel compartment and shined the blinding light through the dust cloud that arose when the door crashed. As the light brushed across a green, tattered sofa, I discovered four pairs of eyes that seemed familiar. The two daughters burst into tears and screams as the father and mother closed their eyes and swayed back and forth chanting a desperate prayer. The other two comrades appeared on either side of me, the barrels pointing at the heads, fingers placed gently on the trigger. As soon as they saw that they were a family, however, the comrades lowered their guns. As I studied each of the Arabs’ faces, I took a step back in shock. It was Uncle Mohamed and his family. I had waited ten years for this moment. For ten years, I trained for over 15 hours each day, punching sandbags until either my knuckles cracked or the bag burst. For ten years, I woke up every night, my head screaming and vibrating as if hit by a mortar, and my body drenched in sweat. And now, all my hard work and patience had paid off. I tilted my head against the gun and stared at Uncle Mohamed’s forehead. The finger on the trigger coiled slowly.

“What do you think you’re doing?” one of the comrades yelled in rage. “They are civilians!”

I let the gun slouch, the butt resting against my armpit. I turned around and locked eyes with the impudent bastard.

“And because they are civilians, we are to give them special pampering?”

“We were given strict orders not to harm the civilians! If you kill them, we are going to have to report you to the authorit-“

Before he could finish his sermon, I lifted my arm parallel to the floor. Within a second, his limp body fell to the shrapnel covered floor, a trail of blood running down his left eye. The other comrade looked at his companion, his eyes wide open and jaw dangling as if it was broken. By the time he rotated his head towards my direction, my arm had rotated to where his face was.

“Would you like to join your friend, or just keep your trap shut?”

Unfortunately, he chose the first option. I turned around to face the family once more.

“Before I kill y’all towel heads,” I slung my gun over my shoulder. “Let me ask you something Uncle Mohamed. Why did you do it?”

Uncle Mohamed’s eyes submerged in tears. He cupped his face with his two hands and muffled his cry. I rolled my eyes and let him finish destroy his man card.

“I… I had no choice. I swear, the soldiers threatened me.” He stuttered through his clattering teeth.

Bang. And the oldest daughter’s head exploded like a water balloon, the blood splashing everyone’s face. Aunt Zaina’s screech was more irritating than the nail against a chalkboard.

“If I were you, I’d start telling the truth fast. Real fast.”

“Ok fine! Alright, just stop!” Uncle Mohamed yelled as he raised his hands above his head. “As soon as America declared war on Iraq, our government wished not to deport the foreigners, but to kill all of them. But they needed proof of illegal actions in order to kill you people. And so I told some officials that you guys were hiding in secret buildings in order to perform Christian services. When they heard of your secret gatherings, they couldn’t thank me enough.”

“So what was your reward?”

“I was offered a job as one of the government officials, the largest house in Baghdad, and a million dollars.”

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. The greed of man was beyond my understanding. I bent over and placed my hands on my knees, the laughter spewing out like an oil geyser.

“So it seems like the Iraqi government offered you three different types of rewards huh?” I inquired as I lifted my goggle and wiped a tear from my left eye. I raised my gun and two bullets shot forth from the barrel to penetrate through the remaining females’ heads. They crashed to the floor like bowling pins. Uncle Mohamed stared at his dead family with mouth wide open. He pounded the floor until his knuckles bled and screamed as if he was tortured. He turned to me and screamed, “You murderer! How can you do this to me?”

I took a cigarette out from my breast pocket and placed it gently between my teeth.

“You took away my family. It only makes sense that I take yours. Besides, looks like you got your three presents laid out in front of you.”

“You are demon. A demon you hear me!? Go ahead, kill me too! I’m not afraid of the likes of you!”

I aimed the gun at him. The sweat soaked through my skin and down my cheeks. Even with the anti-slip gloves, I felt as though the rifle would slip out of my hands any moment. My finger was about to coil around the trigger when suddenly, a thought came up that made me smile and lower the gun. I took a lighter out from my side pocket and lit my cigarette. As the smoke curled up to the ceiling, I turned around to walk out.

“Wait, where do you think you are going? Kill me, you bastard! You took everything from me! There’s no need for me to live any longer! Kill me!”

I stopped at my tracks. I rotated my left ankle and met Uncle Mohamed’s blood-scorching glare with a cheeky smirk.

“You know what I just realized? You aren’t worth wasting a bullet on. In fact, I think it’d satisfy me more to see you live on. Live on realizing that your actions caused your family to die. You not only traded countless lives, but you also traded your soul for some money, power, and wealth. I can already picture you wrestling in bed at night, trying to fight off the guilt and shame. You’ll want to end your own life, but we both know you are too cowardly to do it. Live on, Uncle Mohamed, and try not to forget what your actions have cost you today.”

I turned towards the exit again, the cigarette burning faster as Uncle Mohamed screamed behind me. Mission accomplished.