MAN OF THE HOUSE - 1st Ch.- Critiques Anyone?
Posted: June 28th, 2010, 8:02 pm
MAN OF THE HOUSE
“To write this story you’d already have to be dead;
only the dead can properly write their story”
—Elie Wiesel
Chapter 1
Bosnia, 1994- Two Years into the War
Each shot had to count. Alaga sighted carefully along the barrel of a rusty rifle. Bullets were scarce and more valued than money, but still more valuable was the meat he hoped to bring home. His vision blurred and he rubbed a grimy hand across his eyes, forcing them to focus. Hunger, fatigue or hatred caused the head of a large, brown rat to morph into the face of the soldier who had changed his life forever. He steadied himself, sighted again, then squeezed the trigger, separating the rodent’s head from its body. Yes! Tonight they would have meat to celebrate Zlata’s birthday.
He waited, listening for the sound of return fire. Silence answered. Rising with caution, he scanned the landscape a second time before trudging across patches of snow and ice that still peppered the early spring landscape. Although the calendar read April, no one had informed Mother Nature, and she threatened to make it the last month of winter by refusing to shift gears to warmer weather.
If Alaga didn’t claim the rat quickly, others would chew its plump carcass. Scavengers fed on each other as well as the bodies of the ethnically cleansed. While human beings suffered and died, the rats thrived. He refused to think of what or who had fattened the main course of his sister’s birthday feast.
He seized the animal’s ropey tail. Warm blood drained from its neck, leaving a line of red, melting snow as he walked toward the river to gut and clean his kill. Squatting on the riverbank, he checked the opposite tree line for movement. Finding it deserted, he scooped intestines from the body, flinging them into the icy water. His gaze followed the looped strands of red, blue and gray that quickly sank out of sight. Raising his eyes, he watched the bloated, blackened bodies of fellow countrymen drift past, quickly outpacing the stringy discards of his dinner. As each passed, the cloying sweet smell of decaying flesh filled his nostrils.
Last year, the same scene caused him to vomit. Now, he watched with dispassionate eyes. The sight was common place, and his only sentiment was a hardened appreciation that it wasn’t him or his remaining family. He had learned not to look too closely at the floating corpses. More than once, he had recognized faces of friends from school, boys and girls who had disappeared overnight only to have their tortured bodies float downstream in the days or weeks that followed.
Returning to the task at hand, he peeled back the dark brown, silky fur of the Norwegian rat. He set the pelt aside for the moment and busied himself trying to camouflage the rat-like characteristics of dinner. Mama would not be fooled, but Zlata, at only six years of age, would believe it was a squirrel if he told her so.
Zlata trusted him completely. In her eyes, he was a twelve year old god, and he would do anything, everything within his power to maintain that illusion. Protecting her innocence and ensuring her survival gave meaning to his life. It also fulfilled the promise he had made to their dying father, a promise that had stolen his childhood and stripped away his own innocence.
Laying both the carcass and pelt aside, he washed the blood from his hands in the icy river. He stared at his rippling reflection, searching for the man within the boy. As always, only a boy returned his gaze. If the man existed, he couldn’t see him. Most of the time, he felt crushed beneath the yoke of responsibility. Other times, he wanted nothing more than to escape back into the mirage of childhood, but never, ever did he feel competent of carrying out his father’s wishes. Why, Papa? Why did you make me the one in charge?
He sighed deeply, burying his thoughts and despair in the farthest corner of his heart. It did no good to dwell on it. He couldn’t change the past, and he was the man of the house whether or not he wanted to be. Whether or not he was prepared.
He picked up the silky pelt, stroking its smoothness with delicate fingertips. With this one, Mama can finish the muff she was making for Zlata’s birthday gift. He placed it gently into the bag, next to its former body, the dual entities reminding him of separated Siamese twins.
Picking up the rifle and game bag, he glanced a final time toward the river. It sparkled in the sunlight, its ghastly cargo now only silhouettes in the distance. Beautiful. Shrugging the bag onto his shoulder, he headed toward home.
“To write this story you’d already have to be dead;
only the dead can properly write their story”
—Elie Wiesel
Chapter 1
Bosnia, 1994- Two Years into the War
Each shot had to count. Alaga sighted carefully along the barrel of a rusty rifle. Bullets were scarce and more valued than money, but still more valuable was the meat he hoped to bring home. His vision blurred and he rubbed a grimy hand across his eyes, forcing them to focus. Hunger, fatigue or hatred caused the head of a large, brown rat to morph into the face of the soldier who had changed his life forever. He steadied himself, sighted again, then squeezed the trigger, separating the rodent’s head from its body. Yes! Tonight they would have meat to celebrate Zlata’s birthday.
He waited, listening for the sound of return fire. Silence answered. Rising with caution, he scanned the landscape a second time before trudging across patches of snow and ice that still peppered the early spring landscape. Although the calendar read April, no one had informed Mother Nature, and she threatened to make it the last month of winter by refusing to shift gears to warmer weather.
If Alaga didn’t claim the rat quickly, others would chew its plump carcass. Scavengers fed on each other as well as the bodies of the ethnically cleansed. While human beings suffered and died, the rats thrived. He refused to think of what or who had fattened the main course of his sister’s birthday feast.
He seized the animal’s ropey tail. Warm blood drained from its neck, leaving a line of red, melting snow as he walked toward the river to gut and clean his kill. Squatting on the riverbank, he checked the opposite tree line for movement. Finding it deserted, he scooped intestines from the body, flinging them into the icy water. His gaze followed the looped strands of red, blue and gray that quickly sank out of sight. Raising his eyes, he watched the bloated, blackened bodies of fellow countrymen drift past, quickly outpacing the stringy discards of his dinner. As each passed, the cloying sweet smell of decaying flesh filled his nostrils.
Last year, the same scene caused him to vomit. Now, he watched with dispassionate eyes. The sight was common place, and his only sentiment was a hardened appreciation that it wasn’t him or his remaining family. He had learned not to look too closely at the floating corpses. More than once, he had recognized faces of friends from school, boys and girls who had disappeared overnight only to have their tortured bodies float downstream in the days or weeks that followed.
Returning to the task at hand, he peeled back the dark brown, silky fur of the Norwegian rat. He set the pelt aside for the moment and busied himself trying to camouflage the rat-like characteristics of dinner. Mama would not be fooled, but Zlata, at only six years of age, would believe it was a squirrel if he told her so.
Zlata trusted him completely. In her eyes, he was a twelve year old god, and he would do anything, everything within his power to maintain that illusion. Protecting her innocence and ensuring her survival gave meaning to his life. It also fulfilled the promise he had made to their dying father, a promise that had stolen his childhood and stripped away his own innocence.
Laying both the carcass and pelt aside, he washed the blood from his hands in the icy river. He stared at his rippling reflection, searching for the man within the boy. As always, only a boy returned his gaze. If the man existed, he couldn’t see him. Most of the time, he felt crushed beneath the yoke of responsibility. Other times, he wanted nothing more than to escape back into the mirage of childhood, but never, ever did he feel competent of carrying out his father’s wishes. Why, Papa? Why did you make me the one in charge?
He sighed deeply, burying his thoughts and despair in the farthest corner of his heart. It did no good to dwell on it. He couldn’t change the past, and he was the man of the house whether or not he wanted to be. Whether or not he was prepared.
He picked up the silky pelt, stroking its smoothness with delicate fingertips. With this one, Mama can finish the muff she was making for Zlata’s birthday gift. He placed it gently into the bag, next to its former body, the dual entities reminding him of separated Siamese twins.
Picking up the rifle and game bag, he glanced a final time toward the river. It sparkled in the sunlight, its ghastly cargo now only silhouettes in the distance. Beautiful. Shrugging the bag onto his shoulder, he headed toward home.