Boran sat with his back against the wall. He rubbed his thumb along his palm. It was dark and warm. In the 16 hours they'd been here, the stench of sweat had overwhelmed the room. It couldn't be bigger than a shed but the fifty of them had managed to pack themselves inside. They sat with their knees to their chests. Most of them crying.
Boran could barely see the wall across from him. His arms and legs had ached at first. They had split with pins and needles, but now he didn't feel them at all. His back pressed against the wooden wall. His sandaled feet in the dirt. He tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling, a light breeze beckoning through a crack by his neck. It did nothing to quell the thick air.
Despite the many of them, packed in against one another, the night was silent. They wept without sound. They barely retained breath.
Starting quietly, a muffled sound began to ring out in the world beyond their shed. Music, growing louder and louder. A heavy bass and a language Boran didn't recognize. It grew till it shook the walls. It must've echoed on for miles. People shuffled around him. Some looking out, confused. Some curling tighter, comprehending.
The few children in the group had long since grown quiet. There had been questions at first. When they had been lead through winding queues, inspected and selected. Hurried onto trucks and trailers, being assured that hope awaited. Promises that grew silent as audiences fell away. Till eventually they were lead to the field. Others stretched on for miles around theirs, dotted with people hunched over, tilling the rice. But their field was small, and solid, and before they could gain their bearing's they were piled in a shed and left in the silence.
The music made Boran's teeth chatter. So loud he couldn't think. He rubbed the palm of his hand against his eye and hugged his head to his knees. His lips were raw. He had been working on his paper for the last few days and hydration hadn't seemed important. He dug his fingers into his hair. Something about his hands. They were soft. Hadn't seen hard work in his life. The men had wrenched him forward, inspecting his palms like they were reading them. They slid the tips of their fingers along his, their calloused hands rough on his soft ones. Then they'd shouted something short and moved on to the next person. And he was put on a truck.
The door opened. Dim light silhouetted a man standing before them. A gun hung lazily at his side. In a swift movement he motioned for the nearest huddled woman to stand, and when she didn't, he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her from the room. Another man took his place. The light from behind cast shadows across his face. He looked just the same as the last.
Throughout the day they'd heard murmured voices, and the cracking of branches. Vehicles would come and go and words would be shouted. The dust that filled the air kept their heads low. Boran would sometimes crane his head and peak through the crack in the wall. They were pulling down frons from the trees. He heard a man curse as he cut a finger on their sharp ridges. Boran swallowed hard and touched the soft skin of his neck. The men removed the leaves and threw them away, piling the stalks high.
Boran looked unblinking at the dirt floor. There wasn't a gunshot but god did she scream. For only a second till it twisted into a gurgle and was swallowed by the music. He sat in the dirt with his back against the wall. He gripped his hair so tight, the strands split beneath his grasp. His hands were soft against his scalp. He listened to the screams. On and on through the night. He listened. Until he didn't.
Comentários