This Could Be Anywhere
She feels the sharp jut of the television set into her stomach, and she folds in half. She can feel her dress hiked up to the small of her back. She feels the first squaddie penetrate her with a sharp thrust, then the next, then the next, then the next. In the reflection of her broken front window, she can see them laughing. The spoils of victory are theirs. She stops fighting.
Later it will burn when she urinates.
Later she will vomit in the mornings.
Later, her child will never know his father.
He tries to call out, but the pain from his broken jaw reduces his cries to a gurgle of agony. He is wreathed in a miasma of tear gas and gunsmoke, a dirty halo of a centuries worth of research and development. He digs himself into the ground, like an animal in the dying throes. A hailstorm of rifle butts and leather boots reduces him to a sobbing heap of defeat. He sees a kaliedoscope of supernovas and shooting stars, before it all implodes on him. He stops fighting.
Later he will spit up the remainder of his teeth.
Later he will vomit all day long.
Later, his cause of death will be listed as "severe internal bleeding".
His neck must broken. He hasn't moved in at least half an hour. He lies wispy and frail, a transient and grotesque tableau of broken innoncence splattered all over the living room floor, walls and ceiling. There is a small crater in the wall behind the front door that matches the back of his broken skull, and there are bloodstains spattered on the sergeant's uniform, the last evidence of what he will later claim was an act of self defence. His hands clutch the squirt gun. His mother screams.
Later he will not wake up.
Later his body will be find itself in a mass grave.
Later, years in the future, the brother he never met will swear revenge.
Outside the desert sands dance in the wind. The birds song reaches a deafening crescendo under the jungle canopy. The shelled out and abandoned streets scream bloody murder. The forests cry revenge. Whatever.
Later it will burn when she urinates.
Later she will vomit in the mornings.
Later, her child will never know his father.
He tries to call out, but the pain from his broken jaw reduces his cries to a gurgle of agony. He is wreathed in a miasma of tear gas and gunsmoke, a dirty halo of a centuries worth of research and development. He digs himself into the ground, like an animal in the dying throes. A hailstorm of rifle butts and leather boots reduces him to a sobbing heap of defeat. He sees a kaliedoscope of supernovas and shooting stars, before it all implodes on him. He stops fighting.
Later he will spit up the remainder of his teeth.
Later he will vomit all day long.
Later, his cause of death will be listed as "severe internal bleeding".
His neck must broken. He hasn't moved in at least half an hour. He lies wispy and frail, a transient and grotesque tableau of broken innoncence splattered all over the living room floor, walls and ceiling. There is a small crater in the wall behind the front door that matches the back of his broken skull, and there are bloodstains spattered on the sergeant's uniform, the last evidence of what he will later claim was an act of self defence. His hands clutch the squirt gun. His mother screams.
Later he will not wake up.
Later his body will be find itself in a mass grave.
Later, years in the future, the brother he never met will swear revenge.
Outside the desert sands dance in the wind. The birds song reaches a deafening crescendo under the jungle canopy. The shelled out and abandoned streets scream bloody murder. The forests cry revenge. Whatever.
posted by Information Sniper at 2:13 PM
7 Comments:
Are all three subjects linked?
Is the second subject the son of the first.
Is the third subject one of the opressors of the second subject?
wow. That grabbed me immediately. Very visual and powerful.
that was amazing tom. i am asuming it was inpired by the recent info that came out about the muders of Iraqi's by US military?
its also very interasting, as when i first started to read it i thought about the bosnian war and the aftermath that is stil being dealt with because of the mass rapes that took place by both sides to 'perpetuate their ethnicitiy' as well as all those who were murdered and bodies never found.
the title is apt. it does happen everywhere, i can only be thankful that i live in a country isnt hasnt happened in during my lifetime. i am sure it happened here, after all colonilism isnt exactly a polite process and the darwinism of the 19th cen. got way outta control. but its a scary thought that really the only reason i dont have to worry about murder as a daily occurance is becasue i was born in a country which belives in freedom and rights for all, and too a family who was affluent enough to protect itself from those horrors.
really great!
Christ that was grim. Well done.
I would say I am speechless, but I have to say that that was eloquent.
I laying in bed half-asleep when I thought this up, and I just sort of woke up, let it flow, fell back asleep and forgot about it.
Re-reading it, I think there may be one or two lines that have been pirated (yaaargh!) from an old Crass album ... but thanks for the input.
UTMG - family of three. In order - mother, father, child - I think I shoud have put a bit more in there to suggest that they were a family unit, and maybe a bit more in the last paragraph to make the whole "child" bit clearer; then agian, the whole drowsiness thing is a reasonable excuse.
You could make the familial connection clearer but it works without them being relatives - sort of a different kind of blood relation. This reminded me of Shalimar the Clown, Rushdie's latest book, the darkest I've read of his. I'm not sure what's harder, reading stuff like this with all the context Rushdie gives, or reading it stand-alone like this. I can't say I liked it, but it's good.
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