Traitor

Traitor

A Story by Sami Khalil
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When blind nationalism becomes evil unlike patriotism which is ok.

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Image result for Vietnam vet paintings


Traitor/…………By Sami Khalil

There was always a rift…


“Thank you for coming at a short notice. I hope it was not a bother. I know you are a busy poet, and I hope not to disappoint you. I have a surprise for you; a deeply held secret.”


Enveloped in a haze, Franco Mackey limbered up to the conversation, plunging back in the chair, sipping his bitter coffee, as a laptop and a diary were stationed in front of him.


The poet, known as S.K. Cedar, noticed an ugly shade of numbness, a lament of sorts, that he has never seen before on this forgotten face of misguided disgrace. It was so mysterious it looked as a redeemable nightmare.


A secret or a lie, he thought to himself, for he knew this Vietnam Vet since both were part of the Masonic order and, parted ways to seek different careers.


Now, are gathered as one, at Barnes and Noble’s bookseller, huddled at a café table, with the sounds of trance music in the background, stabbing their ears.


Franco said: “The reason I called you, to let you know I’m leaving the country tomorrow for good, to Costa Rica, where I will abide free from this ignorant sanctuary, embracing my guilt and regrets in willing solitude.


See, the scars of the war will never be erased, even in my zealous wishes. I will carry them to my final resting place. But, all I want from you is to take this biography of mine and publish in a factual story form of your choosing, benefiting yourself from it, or giving the proceeds to charity.


What I’m about to tell you, I have never told anyone, ever. I cloaked it so well all these years with false preconceptions, but now, I want to unleash it all to the world, to show those traitors amongst of us and these wicked people who spat on us coming back home, calling us “Baby Killers” when we were fighting for their freedom. We did fight bravely but people looked at us from a small prism and one or two bad events that happened unfortunately, framing their minds in awful opinions. I fought the Communist North and I have no regrets for that. I consider it an honor and duty to fight for my country I hold dearly in high esteem. My only passive regret is that…( He stopped to compose himself with choking tears), is that…


I killed my twin brother, Luke Mackey, the bleating traitor, who fled to Canada to avoid the draft. What an outcast of no rejoicing who had many gifts to offer his country, but chose otherwise. What a coward! 

There was always that rift between us, covered by haze and shame. He invested in his hopes and dreams, while I paid heavy prices in my health, for I’m now 68 years old, childless from radiation therapy and nothing to be proud of. My dreams are vanquished ones.


I lost my sanity many times in frays and snaps. I recall hating him with no relief, and no jest. I had to kill him when my cousin tipped me off about him returning to Connecticut, after years and years on the run. The awful thing is that this country arrested him not and tried him not either. He should have been charged in a military court. I admit now to you that I had committed an unforgivable nationalist gaffe, which haunted me ever since. I took the law into my own hands, period.


See, I was a master sharpshooter compared to Lee Harvey Oswald by my peers. I have killed untold number of Vietcong SOBs’. Expletive, COMYS.

 

I went back discreetly to our home town where I found where my brother lives, like a king, and shot him dead in his hidden nest. The dude, come to find out, he was a famous architect, that went about another name, in full bloom. I waited for the right moment and I got it. I trashed his house to make it look like a gang robbed him of precious items, singling him out. Then I fled in a clever ruse with great avail.

I have sown grief in his family as he did me, betraying country, flesh and blood. That was the eve of his destruction and morning of my bemoaning.”


When all was said, the poet who was listening intently, with a crowned dread, had no words of consolation, but rather tried to sedate his feelings with a bit of matter of fact denials. Nothing worked for the truth was evident as the sun. It was real, uncensored, creeping like a necromancer. Autumn was in a full swing, in a riot of colors, mingling with footnotes of farewell Summer. It was raining outside in Alabama, so hard, with no surreal brevity. It was all beginning to take root in the whole gestalt of things, un-romanticized.  There was a family, sitting across of them, with jocund children, wearing some sodden clothes.


The Vietnam Vet slipped the biography to the poet and disappeared into thin air. The poet went ahead and published it like a story with the real name in omission. It was a sensation, for it went viral, sold as a best seller, winning several awards and even made into a movie, creating a new dialogue among the people all over again.


Suddenly, in the tender sunlight, he heard some knocks on his door. Here stood some men in fine suits. He thought his addled mind is playing tricks on him. It was the FBI seeking him to yield information on the killer. He would not yield to them for he felt no possible redemption, since the perpetrator had fled the country to Costa Rica.


He was arrested and taken for torture in what is called “Enhanced Interrogation” by using water boarding for he held dual citizenship.

Finally, he gave in, and professed it all. He mentioned the relationship they had for the longest he can remember, for that was no folderol. The FBI gave the case to the CIA, which issued a wide net search in that country. They stumbled finally at a small mining town by the ocean, where peasants last saw him and who were willing to volunteer information for handsome amounts of money, with waltzing temptation.

A man, Jose Jimenez, led them to a grave he dug while back, interring this soldier. He told them how depression overtook this brave soldier, who swam in anguish deeper and deeper to be attacked by sharks, who made him bleed vein to vein, washing up on the shore lifeless. There was a hush in the valley, a delicate grief, couched by an ominous halo.

The CIA excavated his body, to be flown to Washington. D.C. and bury him at the national cemetery. His name was etched like all others on the memorial.

The poet wrote him, in commemoration:


When life sheds its cool merriments

And seasons of grief begin to release

As time goes by in a final experiment

Solemn recalls kiss our lasting peace.


Away from light and an appealing past

Thousands mourn, long for a soft glow

And mothers leave not a silence cast

Over the winds’ choir or loving flow.

 

 


© 2017 Sami Khalil



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Reviews

:It was so mysterious it looked as a redeemable nightmare.
A secret or a lie,"

Sami Khalil

Posted 1 Month Ago


"It was real, uncensored, creeping like a necromancer. Autumn was in a full swing, in a riot of colors, mingling with footnotes of farewell Summer."

Sami Khalil

Posted 1 Month Ago


I have sown grief in his family as he did me, betraying country, flesh and blood. That was the eve of his destruction and morning of my bemoaning.”

Sami Khalil

Posted 1 Month Ago


When blind nationalism becomes evil unlike patriotism which is ok.

Posted 1 Month Ago



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Added on November 30, 2017
Last Updated on November 30, 2017

Author

Sami Khalil
Sami Khalil

Tuscaloosa, AL



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