The Puppet's Trickery

Why? Why? The pounding drum of hatred courses through my veins, pounding over and over like a cannibal's war cry. But yet I cannot hate you. Pathetic. I am weak, and the question I am dying to ask dies hand in hand with the love I had for you. Fear sends shudders through me, I stumble, I fall, amongst my brethren you slayed. But yet I am alive. Why?

Why? Why aren't you here? You promised. I waited for you loyally under the old willow tree that stood like a sentry over my clan's village. We are warriors, father says, we fight for the capital. You say it's wrong, that our lives are bound to them, to be born just to die for them. The rich, the arrogant, the 'stiffs'. Yet you are the most loyal, a puppy for the Queen, a puppet for the government, a tool to use in war. I have waited long enough; I force myself to my feet and walk cautiously through the forest. Why? Why are you always late? But today I realize. I am the only member not within the village, they have all gathered for a meeting. All of them, including you. Something's wrong. The trees barely whisper to one another, the forest is still, silently looming over me. Then a gale hits, the crescendo of clamoring voices forces me a few steps forward into a wise oak, suddenly their shouts hit me. Fire. My eyes burn as I race past the trees, ignoring the pain in my sides as I catch a branch or two. You have been acting differently, easily angered, easily wounded; you've been keeping something from me.

I stand as a statue from the high hill, watching as a spectator as my home is engulfed in burning flames; I hear the screams, the cries, the begging for mercy that will not come. I ignore it all; block it all out as I sprint wildly past the dead. There is no spot not even a speck of ground or wall not painted with the blood of my fellows; it's as if their blood pours from the walls themselves. The dead pile high and every face is known to me, every corpse I pass springs memories of my childhood to mind. I know them all, all of the dead; it's as if their murderer is taking a snippet of my soul one death at a time. Suddenly I am engulfed by the pungent stench of death which momentarily paralyzed me. Why?

Right turn, left, left again. I freeze. That room just a few paces ahead of me, its door ajar. I barge inside hurling myself at the door. You stood there calmly judging my reaction to seeing my parents limp and mauled at your feet. My father lay over my mother, their bodies frozen in their last moments, their hands clawing blindly towards the door in a futile attempt at escape. Why? Why? You have had enough; you shoot me, I stumble, I fall but I am not dead. Not a deadly wound, is this hesitation, sentiment, you weakling? Why? Why won't you kill me, allow me to join the rest? Are you faltering? Have you killed too many that you fear one more will send you into insanity? No, this is torture. You are leaving me to live with the guilt of knowing I am the only one who survived, that I didn't save anyone, that I couldn't. My mind should be overpowered with rage and countless ideas for revenge, then why, as I watch your back move out of my sight. Why is the only thing I can think of, the repeating question I am dying to ask you? Why? Why brother?