Three years. Three years he had waited for this moment, this exact time and opportunity to exact his revenge. And now, all he could think as he watched him fall to the ground, crying out in pain, was how weak he looked.


For years he had imagine how  he would laugh, or walk away like those heroes in the movies, but now, in front of all these people, he appeared to be the bad guy.

Five years ago, he was seventeen years old. At seventeen, the United States had declared war on his country, meaning life for him had changed. Classes were two times a week, when the military had no patrols; it was after all, a nation under siege, and anyone who did not have a foreign accent was a suspect.

He remembered the day when the troops came to their town on a mission. Someone had tipped them that terrorist lived among them, hidden by the people. Their homes were vandalized, men beaten up, women raped, other killed…and this was all a matter of ‘national security’.


No media houses reported this, it was not relevant to the american people. He was lucky to have lived. His mother hid him under the bed, and made him promise he would not come out.

His father was shot, trying to stop the guards from beating up his brother. His mother was raped, as he watched, and shot on the head, on her bedroom floor. They took the money from the safe, and beer from the fridge. They were laughing, taking tolls on how many ‘insurgents’ they had killed.

Insurgents. The word did not sound human. It detached his people from their people, so that when their news reported how many insurgents they had killed, their people would not cry foul. But it was a painful time for him, something he would never forget.

And that was why he did it. That was why he had fled from home to the capital. He had good grades and connection. He got a scholarship to study in the US, and during that time, he did not forget that man’s face. He looked for him, and for the past three years, had been studying him, patiently, waiting for the day he would avenge his family’s death.

He sat by the side of the road, beside the bleeding man. He still held the gun in his hand. He was tired.

He could see the look in his eye, he was wondering why he got shot. He could not recognize him, they had, after all, never met. And he, he felt no reason to explain to him. He did not deserve it.

A group of Americans watched him from a distance, fearing for their lives yet curious to see what was going on.

He heard a woman from the crowd shout at him in anger. “You terrorist! You’ll never win you know, you are just a few, but we are many! We’ll beat you in the end!”

He smiled and held his fore head.

Soon the cops and media would be here. And no one would ever understand what he did.

Religious groups would rise up to defend him, others would condemn him. People would call him bad, a murderer. But no one would ever know, nor understand the pain he had gone through.  No one would understand who he was, and neither did he care.

He had what he wanted, and now the cops, the government  the press and even his own people could do what they pleased with him, he did not care.

He had his pound of flesh, and he was prepared for the worst now.


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