Creativity Magazine


By Kira5485 @hamza_anas5
The horrid expression from his face had now disappeared. More or less, he looked asleep. And one could have mistaken him for sleeping if they just hadn’t witnessed the blood spraying from his neck. His body’s stiffness could make a person’s gag reflex come to life. The tautness in his still limbs could be felt from a mile away. His eyes now had a glaze; stared into oblivion, not focused on anything. He lay in a puddle of his own blood, which came oozing from his neck. It told of a messy end much anticipated by rage and anger. The video was dark, faded but one could still make out the figure standing in the distance, in the shadows.  He was sweaty and his hand wielded a gun.
I wake up, semi-conscious, eyes squint trying to ward off the filtered light drifting in, the inevitable dread of opening them to the sudden glare of a dimly lit room I open only one quickly feeling the burn in my shocked retinas, before slamming it shut again.I’m hanging upside down from the ceiling, the cuts and gashes on my body now dry. My lips are dried up and swollen. My nose is broken, one eye shut from swelling. Pain welcomes me as I depart from what is less slumber and more unconsciousness due to severe pain and torture. In front of me is a chair on which a person is seated. I slowly recognize him, Detective Shoaib. His jet black mustache covering his upper lips, a cigarette dangles from his mouth. It’s Dunhill. Suddenly I want it. I crave it. My hunger for it is too powerful.
“You passed out”I know. I had nails stuck in my fingers, not very pleasant. “I’m telling you detective,..”“for how long are you going to keep this up?”“you can check with my family, I was..”“your family said you weren’t home from five pm to twelve pm, gives you plenty of time to plan and execute this murder”Bullshit, you liar. You never asked my family. “That’s not possible”.“You think I’m lying to you???”Detective, honestly, I want to take that cigarette out of you mouth and shove it in your eye socket. “I’m just saying there is a possibility of committing a mistake”“so you accidentally committed that murder?”I feel anger rising. “no detective I meant on part of your research team”.He gets up takes his cigarette out his mouth and presses it against my forehead. “my team never makes mistakes”So you’re a mind reader as well, that’s just perfect. Just need a little more practice, and I would be missing an eye. I yell. The pain is excruciating. “we have your bloody face in the video,  what do you think this is a game”Yes you bastard, my fingers are pierced, my face is swollen, my nose is broken, I’m burnt from my head and I’m thinking this is a game. “please stop this”“trust me, I’ll have your head if you don’t tell me in the next ten minutes”We have moved on to the next level, first is good cop. He understands my situation well and wants to help me. Second is bad cop, he’ll say everything dirty about my mother until I speak. Then is the torture phase which I have passed and now death threats. We’ll be done in another day at max. “don’t you have any other suspects?”He leaves the room and comes back with a metallic base ball bat. The next minute pain is stirring through all of my body. He starts drumming me with full force. I hear a crack. I have broken a rib. He doesn’t stop. I go numb. My vision goes blurred. He grabs me by my hair and is saying something. I can’t hear him. He kicks me on my face, spits on me. It’s all dark.
I wake up again to realize I’m in a hospital and in a full body cast. The doctor has listed ninety two injuries. They say I’ve been out cold for the past one week. One fine day my body just came to them all bloody and broken in pieces. The person to drop of my body was a janitor who apparently saw me in this condition in a deserted alley. The doctor told me my left hand’s fingers were partly torn off and bloody holes were pierced in them. My body was severely tormented and I was close to dying. “Allah has saved you son, it’s a miracle what He does for His creation” saying this, doctor had left. After a few days of hospitalization a man had come to see me. He was wearing a suit and seemed to be busy. During our small talk he kept checking his PDA, giving little importance to the conversation we were holding. His parting words were “son I am sorry for this inconvenience on part of my entire team. Oh and If it wasn’t for you son, we would have never been able to convict the real culprit. Allah Hafiz”. Apparently inflicting pain and torture on my body had helped them catch the real murderer.   ***
He lay still in a puddle of despair and death. His jet black mustache flawlessly jacketing his upper lips, his eyes absolutely motionless, his hair scruffy and small beads of perspiration on his forehead. Next to his body lay two items drenched in crimson red, one was a wallet which was half open revealing only a small part of the identity card showing the letters: S H O A I B and the other item was a half empty pack of cigarettes labeled DUNHILL. Right next to him, in the dimness, a body stood still. The hand wielded a gun. His face was unmistakably visible, a bloated eye, swollen lips, nose covered in band aid, a wrecked and trashed face which spoke pain and sorrow and a burnt mark on the forehead.

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