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FARUQ
Dirty fingers push a piece of dry cake along the bottom of the bowl, soaking up the remnants of taji stew. My tongue tingles with the sudden rush of salted broth. This sludge is a cheap way to feed large groups of soldiers, but after so long with so little it’s nothing short of a feast. My stomach roils. Could easily eat eight bowls, only to throw it all up again. I set the dish aside and rub my distended belly.
This nauseated state isn’t helped by sitting in Kapka’s tent. Rugs and silks, bedding of the finest make, chains of pure gold, an antique set of Persian armor inset with silver and jewels. Who lives like this while others suffer? Is this my life now?
No, I am not Kapka. I am not a leader, good, evil or otherwise. Not even Ilah knows what I am.
Everything is changed. The clouded veil of youthful optimism that covered my eyes for so long has now fallen away to reveal the cruelty of this stone-gray world. It is an ugly truth hidden beneath the surface of Earth’s last city since the beginning: even together, we are all alone, encircled and tormented by our demons. What is there for me now? A traitorous murderer with no allegiance to anything or anyone, except my own vengeance. And now, even it has left me unfulfilled.
The burlap sack clinging to my shoulders itches and burns my skin yet is contrasted by the soft heavy-pile rug enveloping my torn and blistered feet. An open-mouthed spice jar smokes on the desk nearby, sending its aromas swirling with snaking tendrils into the air. Just next to it is a wash basin, hand mirror, and the golden revolver I’d used to kill Kapka. I stand, the muscles of my legs emaciated but feeling stronger after taking food.
Unable to take the itching any longer, I shed the burlap sack and drop it to the floor. My heart falters. That old sack, my only possession for the past four years might as well be my own skin. Can I cast it off so easily? Can I make this wretched person I’ve become not exist?
With a grunt, I kick it away and move with careful steps to the basin to start the process of sponging the filth from my paper-thin skin. It is a painstaking process, the lashes and sores covering my body a constant stinging reminder of the abuse—delivered by my own people.
A haggard, bearded man with stringy hair and black pits for eyes stares back from within the glass of the ornate mirror lying on the table. With a snarl, I rake everything to the floor, the various accouterments clattering and splashing as they fall.
This is not me. This cannot be who I’ve become.
The tent flap moves. An attendant enters, his head bowed.
“Shapur, are you well?”
Shapur. A name for a prince. After a moment, I find my voice. “Don’t call me that.”
“Yes Sha ... um. Yes. I understand. What would you have me call you?” The attendant, a boy no more than fifteen, rubs his hands nervously. He was one of the few who did not take up arms and thus was not slain.
I shrug. “I don’t care, boy.”
The attendant licks his lips. “Sheikh ... a message arrived from Baqir. Before his death, Kapka called for a troop of reinforcements. They are set to arrive in the morning. What will you have us do?”
My teeth ache as I mash them together. More of his faithful to overcome. My body wavers, still too weak to be much good to me. I must rest. Must think on how to deal with these fanatics. Perhaps they will be glad to be free of his tyranny. Perhaps they’ll murder me. “Leave me. I need time to rest,” I groan.
“Yes, Sheikh.”
“Dammit, boy. It’s Faruq.”
“Yes, Sheikh Faruq.”
“No, just ...”
The young man is gone.
“I’m just Faruq.”
I pick up the revolver and lie down on the bed. These plush quilts are made for entertaining whores. Too soft to be comfortable. But I can’t summon the strength to crawl to the floor where I might feel ... anything but this.
In the darkness, they appear—Mila, then Husniya, both staring with those horrible looks on their faces. I turned them away. After they came to rescue me. The only people who ever cared for me and I sent them away to die in the storm. Just like Kapka said, I’m less than a pile of sard.
My fingers clamp down the wheel gun resting on my chest. “No. They left me to die. They abandoned me. What do I still owe them?”
Four years of my life. Gone. Years of abuse and humiliation. A tear slips down my cheek, running back to pool in my ear. I survived it—my only furious purpose to kill the madman who had ruined my life, prostituted my people, and made a mockery of my faith. Now it is done, but the death of that tyrant brought me nothing. No satisfaction. No further relief. What is left for me in this ugly world? Or the next? Surely burning in the fires of hell would be better than living in this place another day.
Time to finish this and end this miserable existence.
The barrel is cold beneath the floor of my chin. I thumb back the hammer. Eyes wide, I scream out to Ilah. “Where are you now?”
My index finger lurches against the trigger. The hammer falls with a snap like the rending of a dead branch. Ftzzzz.
The revolver, still clutched in my shaking fist, slips from beneath my chin. A small tendril of smoke wafts from the cylinder. A misfire. A failed primer in an antique round. I moan, the reckless sobbing catching and gurgling in my throat as the pistol falls from my fingers to the floor. Fate dooms me to live out this failed existence. Warm tears of misery and hate run heedlessly from the corners of my bruised eyes until exhaustion, slow and creeping, has its inevitable way with me.
