The Mysterious Misery

I incessantly wonder what goes on inside that walnut organ of beings. What instigates them to do things that they do. I was hooked, to say the least by the emeralds of the Amish. The volumes that the eyes of that sheer thirteen years spoke was hypnotic. The impending misery telling tales that the little soul went through was haunting. As he went on without a flick reading the book in his hands, ” THE ROTHSCHILD JOURNAL, 1897″. How come he was all alone on the armada? Where were his parents? The replication lingered in the air without a hint. My mind was in a haywire seeking to be sorted as I continued observing my lonesome companion in this boogie settled across me. As on que feeling my eyes upon him, he gazed at the time machine settled on his wrist. A look of worry etched his face and as soon as it came, it was gone, replaced by a brave look as of a martyr ready to sacrifice himself to the supreme fate. Fidgeting began of then once quiet boy, I was confused. Never in my life had I a greater urge to decipher what was going on, the fear of being clueless bringing out my worst behavior as now I continued to openly stare at him. The interesting book in my lap no longer serving its purpose when abruptly the shadow in front of me grew to its full height. The boy daring me to utter a syllable as he shushed me with one look. What really was in him to be so fearless. Tearing my eyes from him I looked at the masterpiece he had been reading for the past hour. Only five words made their existence known on the blank coffee paper.

And in a smooth calligraphy only an Amish could trace was written in bold

‘Oct 17,1897’

For the war shall end.

The moonlight peeking through the window stipulating we were on our way to freedom, a few miles were all that was left. As we ferried to the states away from the streets full of hardships making me sigh in content. But as a thunder on the stormy night, realization hit me. I glanced at the boy who had his eyes closed shielding him from all the darkness and reciting a lullaby in his head or was it a battle-cry? Opening his eyes with profound heroism, he pulled out his shooter and fired. “I’m sorry” were the last words that ever made pass through the curtain of my ears before everything went dark with the sight of a horrified yet gratified Amish boy to behold.

-Srishti Karira