Luck

Rami sat, knees to his chest, watching the blood well to the surface of his damaged knee. Little pin pricks of red swelled to plump balls and joined as the flow increased. He didn’t know what else to do. His vision was sort of funny like looking through a dirty window with just one clean spot in the middle. He heard noises in the street but they were remote and unconnected to the steadily building flow now running quite freely. He knew it hurt but the pain was dull and strange.

Flames and smoke and screaming drew his attention. He looked up. The scene was over exposed, washed out and too bright to look at. He closed his eyes. The sound hurt to. He raised both hands to his ears and discovered his right hand did not obey this simple request. Burning pain shot across his small body like an electric shock applied by hot poker to his shoulder. He started to fall into the damaged limb. He tried to catch the fall but once more the pain seized him. He screamed as he fell. The world condensed into agony and grey.

His death was mourned by no one he knew but the sequence that played on a billion TVs across the world did liberate a million tears. A small boy blasted from a mothers grip. Just another spot on the ten o’clock news. Just another day in the war of terror.

Good night and good luck.