You don’t know I am, so let me introduce myself: I am the woman who hammered that shrapnel into your ankles and knees while you were under.
You’ll be reassured to know every piece came from one of
your landmines. None were the one that took my son’s legs, though I tried to
find some. It would have been even more appropriate. As it is, all the charred
steel now shredding your muscles and tendons is stuff you bought and put out
there.
The handcuffs are for your own safety. If you pulled those
shards out, you might bleed to death or get an infection. Mothers are very
worried about infections. Did you know one summer when he 11, while playing
soccer, he got such a bad gash that he needed injections in his calf every
three days for four weeks? Of course you didn’t think about that, just as I don’t
care what you were before you became a warlord or whatever you think you are.
We’re ten miles from your nearest compound. That’s a lot of
walking to do with your joints full of metal. It might even be impossible, but
maybe you’ll get lucky and waddle your way into screaming range for one of your
lackeys.
I’m going home now. My son’s funeral is tomorrow, because he
didn’t make it back to base, what you left of him. He only made it ten miles.
Ten miles with no legs. Can you imagine?
Well, you will.
Harsh... and timely.
ReplyDeleteI would like to think that she was being unreasonable. However, while she is taking out a lacky rather than the warlord I can see justice in it. Harsh, but justice just the same.
ReplyDelete