Author's Note: The following is a Kite Runner fanfiction that first got its conception in 2011, when I was a mere teenager, studying the book for my Leaving Certificate exams. I fell in love with this novel, its ups and downs, the characters, their story, and everything in between. And, with every piece of media that I love, I knew that I would need to write a fanfiction based on it. However, I didn't want to go down the route of writing about Amir and Hassan — while I adore the stories surrounding these two (Hassan Deserves Better, 2020), I wanted to explore an avenue that people didn't seem to have gone down. Hence, I came up with this character; Saria Ahmed, Assef's little sister, and to write a story from her first-person perspective.
This story has gone through some several changes. Due to this, I have made the choice to remake it in its entirety; so I am rewriting every chapter. For those who may have read it on other accounts of mine, please be aware that personal issues have caused me to restart my fanfiction life once more. I have my reservations and anxiety regarding the reposting of this story, but I have decided to go for it.
Please be aware that this story contains strong language, violence, and questionable actions/morals as displayed by the main character. The character of Saria has been greatly inspired by those such as Leena Klammer, from the movie Orphan, as well as Samara Morgan from The Ring, and there are more than likely elements of real life "killer children" in her personality and attributes, too, though of course, any and all connection to persons, fictional or otherwise, living or dead, is purely coincidental. And, of course, she derives a lot of her inner self from her big brother. Therefore, reader caution is advised before reading.
I must also note that I, as the author, in no way condone or agree with the thoughts and actions displayed by either Saria or Assef in this story. This is merely a work of fiction; and should be taken as such. This story means a lot to me, as it has taught me a lot about writing, and I hope that in writing it, I can make people think, as it is always my aim to challenge with my writing.
This is dedicated to all of the special, wonderful people in my life who have believed in me, and who have supported my writing career from the very beginning.
And with that said, thank you for taking the time to read this author's note, and please enjoy!
Sociopath.
It is a word for which there is no Farsi equivalent. The English definition of it is as follows: "a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behaviour". They are people who can lie, steal, cheat, and even commit murder, without the slightest hint of remorse. The media portrays them as insane monsters, seeking only to cause as much bloodshed as possible.
Psychologists look at them as test-subjects, and would have you believe that they know everything there is to know about what goes on in a sociopath's mind. What makes them tick, what makes them behave in the way that they do. Many of you, I would bet, probably believe that sociopaths are monsters. You probably see them as unfeeling, heartless demons who deserve to either be locked up or exterminated. Who could blame you for feeling this way? After all, it's what the media, and some of the lesser-educated experts, have told you.
But what if I told you that you're wrong? But, what if I told you that the 'experts' have it wrong? What if I told you that sociopaths, contrary to popular belief, are not evil at all? What if I told you they are, in fact, as human as you or I? What if I could tell you the truth about these people? The real truth, not the falsehoods and lies that the psychologists force down your throats? Now, you're probably wondering; how do I know all this? What makes me such an expert on sociopaths? You probably think that I too, am a psychologist, that I too have studied sociopathy, and this is how I know so much about them. Well, that's where you're wrong.
I know about sociopaths, you see, not because I study them, but because I am one.
In the winter of 1974, the body parts of twelve-year-old Zainab Qualmari were found scattered throughout the woods on the outskirts of Kabul. It was a crime that shocked the neighborhood. Some time later, a hiker stumbled across the body of a boy named Farsef Sajihdi, decomposing in a shallow grave. He had been beaten viciously with brass knuckles, but what disturbed the coroners the most was the fact that, according to their investigation, Farsef had still been alive when he was buried. His death, like Zainab's, struck fear into the hearts of adults and children alike. Now, you may be wondering, why am I telling you all this? What is the relevance between these crimes, and my story?
How would you react, I wonder, if I told you I was responsible, not only for Zainab's murder, but for Farsef's as well? Not only that, but what if I told you I'd committed those crimes before my thirteenth birthday? Most of you would be horrified. Most would not be able to believe that a child could be capable of such evil, sadistic acts. But I am. In a way, I suppose that I always have been.
There are those of you, I know, who will no longer wish to continue reading. The weak-minded of you will label me a monster and refuse to hear my story. That's fine. I will not change your opinions of me, nor do I want to. But for those of you willing to stay, I ask only that you read these words with an open mind. What you are about to read is completely, utterly true. I do not sugar-coat anything within these pages. I, Saria Ahmed, am willing to spill every detail of my life, for those of you who are brave enough to hear it.
This story is not written to entertain or shock you. It is not written to draw your sympathy or to make you care for me. Ultimately, it is not written for you at all. I write these words for one person, and one person only. The one who made me who I am today. The one who is my everything. The one for whom I would give up my life without a moment's hesitation.
Assef Ahmed. My older brother. My best friend. The other half of my twisted, broken soul. My hero, my idol, my inspiration, and the only person in this godforsaken world that could ever come close to truly having even the slightest hope of understanding me.
As I write this, I sit alone on the balcony of my parent's villa, overlooking the rocky beach of Rockingham, Western Australia. The sun is setting along the horizon, the waves breaking against the sand. I want for nothing in this life, money is of no object to me. I am one of the richest people in this foreign land. I am, for all intents and purposes, in paradise. This is an idyllic picture, and one that, if this were in better circumstances, I would find completely and utterly serenic. But, as the wind bites at my face, blowing my hair back, I am reminded only of how much I have lost.
I am so far from Afghanistan, so far from my brother, so far from my dreams. Yet, it wasn't always this way. No, there was a time, long ago, when my life was different. A time in which I lived in relative comfort, in which my homeland was a relatively peaceful place, and not the war-torn hellhole it has become. A time where perfection seemed an attainable goal. But now that goal seems so far out of reach. Now the world has taken all but the last shred of hope from me.
Some would call my failings punishment for my past actions. I call them a drive to continue, to never give up until I have achieved my ultimate goal; a perfect life in a perfect world.
To say this is my story alone would be incredibly selfish of me, because it is not just mine. It is my brother's too. The story that nobody else would dare to tell. The story that I, and I alone, must take on the duty of writing. This story exists, because I need to tell it. For Assef. For the brother the world dared to rip me away from. I write these words for us, as an apology for leaving him, and as a way to let him know that, no matter what, I still love him with every fibre of my being. Every beat of my heart, every battle I fight here in this strange land, I do for him. I do with the hope that one day, we will be reunited.
Maybe, if he reads these words, he will understand just how much he means to me. One day, I know, one day, we will be together again. The Ahmed siblings — us against the universe — as it has always been.
This is our story, starting from one fateful day in 1974, all the way to when I left Kabul, and everything in between. And maybe, once you read it, you will see the humanity within us.
We are not the monsters.
Prologue done! Thank you to everyone who has read thus far. I hope that you've enjoyed it. The story proper will start in the next chapter. Thank you again!