Kill Or Be Killed

• Ria Sinha, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2014

I wasn’t proud of what I did. At least publicly. In truth I was in awe of what I could achieve. I set out with a purpose, knowing what I would face. I knew what I was getting into, the life I would face after it was over. Lying on the blank bed, it really wasn’t that uncomfortable, I reminisced in that one moment. He lay there helpless, weak, he hadn’t done anything. I didn’t know his name, I didn’t know where he was from, I had no reason to do it. I just did. From my jacket I gently pulled it out. A beautiful blade it was, the hand grip was expertly crafted and the knife embedded with intricate designs. Edging it closer to my finger I gently slit the skin, as a small trickle of crimson blood fell out. It was sharp. He was sweating now, cowering in fear, yet frozen in time. I coaxingly whispered for him to look away. The neck was the perfect place to kill, between the carotid artery and the jugular vein survival just wasn’t an option. If I was being honest the prison life wasn’t bad. I had good food, clean water, they kind of looked after me. Soon I would be free, one more year, then I would do it again one last time.

***

I was proud of what I did. At least publicly. In truth I wasn’t, I wished I hadn’t come. I set out with a purpose, not knowing what I would face. I didn’t know what I was getting into, the life I would face after it was over. Curled like a newborn on the gravel, comfort was a joke. I reminisced. I had been excited, eager even, to come here, leave my old life and start anew at the shores of this country. I lay there helpless, weak, I hadn’t done anything. They didn’t know my name, they didn’t know where I was from, they had no reason to do what they did, they just did it. I simply sought asylum. Every day I was plagued by the constant possibility of physical violence. The worst was what they did to Sam. He was out in recreation when they came. They blocked his nose and his mouth and they assaulted him and then when he got back to his cell, one of them urinated on him. We were their animals, I had ounces of barely edible scraps, polluted water if any, day by day they slowly scraped at my sanity. I wasn’t a murderer, I hadn’t done anything and yet they treated me like this. Why? If I was being honest I wished I could end it, between a knife and my neck heaven might come quick. But even that was impossible, they made sure of that as well. I would never be free, year after year I would rot here until one fateful time when my body would give in and I would wither from existence.