Prologue

This is the beginning of a short story that i am writing.

I could see his frail body lying in the hospital bed, his head propped up by three pillows placed carefully on the end of the bed. Seeing my brother’s feeble body, I was transported back to the time when I had seen him like this last. We were playing cricket in the neighbourhood, in our eyes no day would properly begin without us blasting each other with sixes.

Even escaping from our home was quite a conundrum; we were not the richest family in the village so we had to make do with a one room house. My mother and father shared the only mattress; I was fine sleeping on the ground because the smell of urine and dirt would pierce my nose every time I was in the vicinity of that thing. My brother always kneed in my side when he wanted me to wake up, fighting off the last remnants of sleep I would carry my tired body out of the room.

I remember the room being very dark, with no electricity for large parts of the day, like bats we had to navigate long passageways relying on sound. Feeling the wall I arched my head towards the only stream of sunlight, cautiously the two of us would venture our main gate.  

Pushing the old rackety gate, we were finally outside. This was the moment that never got old; the almost blinding light of the sun would enter your eyes as soon as you pressed your way outside. My skin felt charged every time I stepped out, almost as if someone plugged by whole body into a nearby socket. The hairs on my arms would rise, a shiver would go down my back and I felt electrified, I felt rejuvenated.

I looked behind and there was my brother, doing his best to cradle the bat and the ball between his armpits. He knew that he had bigger hands than me and he spared no time in reminding me of it, always the one taking the bat from my hand whenever I reached for it. He would tell me that I was still a little boy, it was almost as though embarking on the journey between my house to the cricket pitch while holding the bat and ball was a rite of passage to manhood in my brothers eyes, now that I think about it, in all probability it was.

Careful not to arouse suspicion (because even a nuance of sound would alert the neighbourhood boys who would come bustling out, virtually begging to join in) I set up the wickets. It was not as though I did not enjoy the company of the other boys, but morning cricket was a time I shared with my brother. I felt as though it was criminal for anyone else to encroach on our special bonding time, even if they were my friends. As the younger brother, I was the one that was expected to ball first while my ten year old big brother whacked me around the field. I didn’t mind balling all that much, feeling the wind in your hair while running up to the pitch enthralled me. It was like a soft, slender hand ruffling your hair after a long hot day. I remember bowling a fast ball; however in my gut I knew my brother was putting this away with his eyes closed.

I remember hearing loud Wham! Followed by the piercing crack of glass, scanning the damage I realized that we had broken our neighbour’s window. This was the worst nightmare of anyone playing in the street, even more frightening than the ball getting lost. One glance at my brother and I knew what to do, he was already gathering the wickets, hastily grabbing the equipment he made a beeline to our house. I knew that my brother would beat me to the door, not only did he react faster but he was also quicker than me. Putting my head down, I tried to make my legs move as fast as they possibly could, whispering ‘Move move’ to them, as though that would make a difference.

“You boy! Stop! Stop!” boomed my agitated neighbour from across the street; in that moment it was as though an anchor fell in my stomach. We were caught and there was no way we could escape, I froze in my tracks too scared to look behind. Turns out I didn’t have to, my neighbour the old man on the street everyone took an instant hatred to, grabbed my arms and turned me a hundred and eight degrees. It hurt a lot more than I expected, for someone his age he had very strong hands, each second that went by I could see the mark on my skin getting visibly redder from where he grabbed me. He was a retired military officer; and it came as no surprise that he was a stickler for discipline. Any soul who dared disturb his peace and quiet would fall prey to the brunt of his anger.

This instantly sparked a reaction from my brother, he was known as a hot head across the village and even the smallest hint of annoyance would set him off. Seeing me in distress, he hurtled his head towards the old man, not unlike the way that goats often do. The old man, stunned initially quickly gathered his bearings and unleashed hell on my big brother. He tackled him to the ground pinning his arms to the dirt, he then proceeded to slap him across the face repeatedly. I watched on in horror, my feet felt as though they were glued to the ground, I wished I could take action but I stood rooted to the spot.

I remember bringing my brothers bloodied body to my parents, my dad was unusually calm, he asked me what happened and then rushed my brother to the local doctor. That was probably the time I felt closest to my brother, without a hesitation in the world, he jumped in to save me while running the risk of receiving a savage beating. It strangely brought us closer; never again did I ask him to let me carry the wickets to the pitch.

Snapping myself out of the moment of reminiscence, I choked back tears watching my brother’s fragile body lying on the hospital bed. His dilapidated eyes staring back at me, I noticed that he was hooked to all sorts of drips and monitors. Periodically nurses and doctors would walk in the room to check up on him, they seemed like aliens to me, they were devoid of any emotion. Noting down readings from the monitor, they would then discuss matters with each other in hushed tones, moments later they would unceremoniously leave the room.

My brother knew very well what was in store for him; his steely grey eyes stared back at me with hardened resolve. I struggled to wrap my head around the fact that my brother was poisoned, sure he was a hot head who may have said things in the heat of the moment, but he never had any lasting enemies. The realization that my brother, Afzal, was on his deathbed hit me like a tonne of bricks. With my head buried in my hands, I would at times steel glances at his limp body; he dared not utter a word in fear that it would be his last.

All life is meant to come to an end, every human has an expiration date, but the reality of murder is hard to digest. It seemed unfathomable to me that my brother was poisoned; someone actually had the intention of killing him. Now seeing him on the bed, I just wished I could talk to that person, divulge deeper into the hate that they had for my best friend, my compatriot.

He took one last breath in his lungs, breathing deeper than he ever had, a hoarse croak escaped from his throat. I closed my eyes, knowing what was about to come, my mother’s blood curdling scream is the last thing I remember before blacking out. 

Author's Note

Any and all comments and reviews will be greatly appreciated

Reviews

[Emma Anderson]

I think it would read much better if the text was 12pt and if you separated the paragraphs a little more. I have to say this story doesn't interest me but that doesn't mean it's bad, just that it's not something I'd read. I can't see any grammar issues so far.

[Iqbal Mirza]

Thank You for the review, id try to make this more relatable as i go on so that it appeals to a wider audience

[R Smith]

This is a very well written piece, it kept my attention and the story flowed naturally as though I were listening to you speaking, an excellent beginning to your story my friend.

[Iqbal Mirza]

I really appreciate it

[Jennie Baron]

A well developed and organized story with vivid description. I like this one a lot. I'd be interested to see how it turns out.

[Iqbal Mirza]

Thank You!

[Life Pal]

Very nice story, i loved it.Keep writing :)

[Iqbal Mirza]

Thank You!