Mismatched

                                                                   Mismatched

“Get up,” This command was followed by Him unceremoniously trying to kick me awake. I pretended to snore loudly in response. In fact, I had woken up the moment He had stepped inside my tent. The moment the scent of his mix of aftershave and sweat had reached me. I clenched my eyelids shut, hoping, praying he would walk away. I prayed he would leave me alone and pick on somebody else tonight. I shoved aside any qualms that rose up for having thought that, my desperation superseding the guilt. After all, self-preservation is the first law of nature. That was what my father had always been fond of reminding me.

My name is Skee and I am one of the many people who were forcefully displaced from their homes last year.  War had forced people from my community to flee to a neighbouring country that was more sympathetic to our cause. When anyone here asks me what happened to my parents, I say with the saddest face I can muster, “They lost their lives due to the war.”

In actuality, they had died due to a gang fight gone sideways, but nobody here needs to know that I was a thug’s daughter. If they ask me who my parents were, I say, “They were doctors.” This profession seems to elicit more sympathy than any other. People find it ironically sad that a person who saved others’ lives couldn’t save themselves. I know it’s wrong, but I milk it for all its worth. I do not like to think of my old life. I believe that if one makes it a point to not think of something, that something tends to leave your memory bit by bit.

Being a refugee in another country is not so bad, if you ignore the fact that sometimes older kids tend to try to bash your head in. They make us live in refugee camps and of course all the orphans are grouped together. Some of us have had years to get used to the feelings of abandonment and self-pity that comes with being orphaned but most here are new to it. This woebegone war has successfully destroyed and fragmented several happy families, including my tent-mates’ family- Reyna’s. 

I could hear my tormentor make his way to Reyna’s bed.

“You, stand up,” he barked at her. My hands clenched into fists and I repeated to myself in my head, “Don’t, don’t, don’t…” like a mantra. I heard her bed springs creak as she got up and the quiet sobs she made as she walked towards him. I couldn’t stay still anymore, I wouldn’t mind sacrificing anybody else. Anybody- just not her.

I stood up- all traces of sleep forgotten- and said, “Let her go,” as calmly as I could. 

“I’m awake, see?”

I even waved my hands for effect. His eyes settled on me, and they wore a colder and a more frightening expression than any fourteen year old should be capable of.  His mouth slid into a mean grin and he shoved Reyna away with one hand while beckoning me forward with the other. He knew how to manipulate me. He knew my weaknesses, after all he made it a point to find them out.

He grabbed a hold of my arm as soon as I was close enough and dragged me outside where a circle of his henchmen were waiting.

“Hello” I greeted cheerily and nodded at each of them in return, “Tootles, Slightly, Nibs, Curly, and,” I glanced at my tormentor before continuing with a wicked grin, “B*****d.”

I try to hide the fact that I was terribly afraid in front of them with a façade of humour. I will not give them the pleasure of knowing that their act was working.

They returned my greeting with stoic faces and confused expressions in their eyes- as always. They still haven’t figured out what my names for them mean. Only He knew, and He rewarded my wittiness with a whack to my head. Predictable.

“Hold her down,” he commanded his goons and they tripped over themselves in their haste to obey. During the day, they were not so bad. Nibs, in particular, would come and apologize to me over and over again- sometimes making me wish for his night-time persona. But He, He never showed any signs of repentance. He would glare at me, shove into me, trip me, push me, in fact do almost anything he could think of that could cause me misery. 

Two of his goons pinned my arms to the ground, and another sat on my legs preventing me from trying to escape. As if I had the courage to. A short manic burst of laughter escaped my throat and someone pinched my arm to shut me up. My Tormentor walked around me, slowly cleaning the little pen-knife He had. This was the start of His routine. After making exactly seven rounds He would stop, kneel down next to me and ask,

“Who am I?”

I shook my head no, as I had done plenty of times before. I didn't know. I never did, and still he continued to ask me. Every night he asked me this, and every single time I would tell him the truth. I really didn't know.

He signaled to the henchman holding my right arm down, Curly, to be specific, who quickly shoved a dirty, salty piece of cloth into my mouth.

“Who am I?” he asked again, his face the picture of calm. The kind of calm that comes before a storm. He raised the knife, and slowly, precisely made a cut in my arm, just underneath the shoulder. I screamed into the cloth, and twisted madly, trying to break free, trying to overcome the pain. He removed the cloth from my mouth, giving me a chance to speak.

“I don’t know,” I whimpered in frustration, all my false bravado, all my cheekiness, vanished. “Let me go,”

“I will, once you tell me who I am,”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“I knew, I knew who you were the moment I saw you,” he whispered back at me with a tone of disappointment he had no right to. I hadn’t been so lucky, the first time I saw him was when he walked into my tent one night and asked me the same question. I had sworn at him and told him to get the hell out whoever he may be. That had not bode well with the bully in him. It had sparked the rise to our nightly sojourns.  

He punched me, pinched me, and sliced me with his knife. All the while pleading with me to recognise who he was. He finally stopped after fifteen minutes, on the dot. He was a stickler for time, my dear Tormentor.  Sometimes, the way he walked, the way he spoke, the expression on his face when he tortured me did spark a vague memory in me. As if I’ve seen them all before, worn by a different person, in a different time.

They marched me back into my tent and as they were walking away I heard Nibs ask Him, “Why do you always stop after fifteen minutes?”

“Because we may get caught,” He answered simply, “The first rule of nature is after all, self-preservation.” My heart stopped, I could almost feel the blood slowing down in my veins. Realisation came with a horror that gripped my insides, for my entire life suddenly make sense. I understood and finally accepted what I had always known in my inner hearts’ core. Tomorrow I would have an answer for my Tormentor. I settled into bed, but my eyes were wide open. I now knew who he was. 

He was my brother.  

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Reviews

[xx_strawberry_xx]

Great story! I didn't really expect the ending until the last few paragraphs. This seems more of a chapter than a short story, though, because the ending isn't really satisfying enough for it not to be visited again, if that makes sense.

Overall, the writing was well done. I loved the introduction paragraphs, they really hooked me deep into the story, so great job with that! :)
Two things..
- "I will not give them the pleasure of knowing that their act was working." should be "I would not give them pleasure of..." (Because the whole story is told in the past tense, and that one sentence kind of threw me off while reading it).

- "The kind of calm that comes before a storm" is kind of a cliched phrase, as I've read it very often in books. I would suggest thinking of another way to describe calm. This is a very small thing, but if you want to keep it, its up to you, really.

[Persona]

I like the back story more than the story itself. I like the living in refugee camps and the character's thuggish parents. Maybe you could either edit this dramatically or expand on those elements? I noticed your profile mentions India. You could draw upon your heritage maybe? People love reading about culture these days.