He lifted his head as an act of defiance. The face which loomed into his vision was nothing more then a blurred blot. He focused his red swollen eyes and struggled to engrave that face in his memory, just in case if the future gave him a chance for the payback of this predicament.
In the past hour, he had already swallowed half of his teeth and puked out most of his breakfast. By now, he also had a pretty good idea what Mohammed Ali’s punching bag must have felt like.
‘So,’ the garlic smelling voice filled the room. ‘Are you going to be a good boy and tell me what I wish to know or you still want to enjoy my hospitality a little longer??’
He could feel his heart thumping against his rib cage and the numbness of his shackled limbs. A cold chill ran through his spine as all of his common sense told him to quit and spill the beans but instead he forced his bloodied and bruised lips to form a smile and said as coherently as his swollen tongue and crushed gums allowed him to, ‘FUURRCCK YAAAHHHH.’
He could never figure out what hurt more, the punch that broke his nose or the kick that ruptured his spleen. In fact, he couldn’t even remember what followed what. But at that instant he was sure that he wasn’t going to get out of this room alive.
He wasn’t scared or sad. Death was part of the job description. He waited for the clichéd show reel of his life to start playing in front of his eyes but instead only the images of his parents flashed before his eyes, with the feelings of regret in tow.
He regretted not thanking them enough for bringing him up so well, specially his father for installing so much belief, confidence, courage and all the other values that molded him into the man he is today. He hoped his father wouldn’t be much distraught with his death. Being an ex-army man himself he would understand why his son had to die. Wasn't ‘Duty onto Death’ had been the motto of his force.
The backhand slap across his face brought him back from his musings. He re-tasted his own blood and coughed violently as he tried to breathe in some of the stale air.
Suddenly, someone kicked open the door. The blare of the sunlight caught them both, the torturer and the tortured, unprepared. For the next 3 minutes both of them were blinded by the light but they did notice a figure entering the room.
He clenched his eyes in pain but heard the two shots fired at close range. With the ray of hope in his heart he opened them again and saw his torturer lay dead near his feet with two neat holes in his chest.
He saw the figure of his savior move towards him and tried to mumble his thanks for saving his life.
The figure kneeled down. There was something very familiar about him, the smell, the way he moved, but his numb mind refused to make the obvious connection.
Just before he fell unconscious he heard his father’s soft voice in his ears.
‘No need son. After all, what else are fathers there for?’
This one is for my Dad. Had written it for his b'day on the 21st but couldn't edit it properly till today. A bit late but well he would understand I hope. After all that's what fathers do best. Love Ya Paa