Poetry: Bravery

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'If you dare touch my mother, I will stab you with this fork", the little boy thundered with ferocious indignity. He stood and stared, lost in the bravery of the little boy. His gun became a feeble iron posing before a little lion and a feeble mother…then he recalled it. Yes! Everything. It was today that year when he enlisted in the military, it was not by morbid curiosity or by unwavering interest for war, it was a mission on vengeance.

It was 0300 hours while he was still lying on his bed when his door came crashing down. Whoever was behind the attack he didn't know. What he could recall was his mother lying in a pool of blood with a protruding screwdriver driven into the back of her neck. Her sister has been sprayed on the floor like a mattress, and one demon was taking a feast of her in-between. He couldn't do anything to save them. The impact of the collision had really taken a toll on him.

There on the hard tiled floor, he lay lost in thoughts and vendetta, with bloodshot eyes he looked up to the six men all clad in ski mask, his hands had been brutally tied at his back and his cranium hurt as of he was beaten with a club. But actually, he had been lashed with a Ninja pole. His lips were bitter and his heart was full with bile. All he could thought of was vengeance.
The men had left him to die in cold blood after having beaten him to a pulp. But the day was not actually his day. He had a second chance.
A neighbour who had heard all the rumbles had come to his rescue.

This was many years ago. As he stood pointing the gun at the little boy and his mother, these thoughts flashed into his mind, he could only stand and stare, he wish he had protected his mother and sister like this little boy just did. Then it happened. His commander arrived the scene, confused of what was happening, he bellowed "You this coward, what the heck is taking you so much time to finish that woman and the little boy'.

Shaga boom! Shaga boom! It all happened within a short time. You have always been a coward a still little voice in his head whispered. He could recall the day he was trained on how to kill without feelings of guilt, but killing was not really his thing. He knew he was a coward, he could have protected them that morning, but all he could do was watch his sister and mother murdered in cold blood. Yes that was it, he was too weak to kill the young boy and the mother. He had instead turned around and killed his commander. The boy with the fork was braver than he with the gun. Then his troop arrived, but none could utter a word at the scene…then silence towered over them like a heavy cloud.