for "mini_nanowrimo" hence no friends lock 26
this is absurdly sad. i don't know where it came from, except that i was thinking about anderson cooper when i wrote it...and then it all went to hell. sorry andy.
This country is hot and dry. He is standing a few feet away from the truck, his back to everyone, and is staring at the endless desert before him. The sun is high and beats down on his skin. He wipes the sweat that is stinging his eyes away with a cloth handkerchief. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Sure, as a journalist, he knows he need to cover the wars, famine and effects it has on the people here. Those stories need to be shown to the outside world. Too often he feels like the people back home would be happier if they didn’t know, if they never had their awareness raised about these issues. But why he volunteered himself to leave the country, to be the one to travel here, he isn’t yet sure of.
The crew starts to get restless so he takes one last look and walks back. Bottles of water are being handed out and he drinks half of his in one gulp. They discuss where they should go next. You can pick and chose the most sensational horrors because there are so many to chose from. They pile back into the truck, crammed with their cameras, luggage, laptops and other small electronic devices, and head north. There is a village about half an hour away with a centre run by women for girls who have been raped and torture by soldiers. One of the girls who came from the centre grew up and went to a prestigious ivy league school. Another was nominated for a Nobel Peace Price for her work in creating a new schooling system and moving a generation of children out of ruins and into civilization. It’s the kind of story that their bosses are looking for, glimmers of hope among the dust.
They drive through the nothingness of the landscape and he feels the nothing seep deeper into him. There are barely any roads. He doesn’t know if he can feel anymore.
The drivers slows the truck as they come up to the centre. It looks like a nondescript red brick building. It is hard to believe the pain and suffering going on within the walls. It’s harder to believe some good ever came out again. There are groups of young girls within the fenced area. They stop playing in the dirt to watch the men curiously and cautiously.
They are greeted at the front doors by two tired looking women in their mid-thirties. They are all given pamphlets and an overview of the organization. Before any questions can be asked another vehicle pulls up and a small girl, holding a cloth sack tightly in both hands, gets out followed by another older woman. The women greet each other but when the men start to introduce themselves (with the helps of a translator that they hired) the girls begins to cry. She says something in a language he doesn’t understand and they all turn to the translator as to women coo and hush her. He looks unhappy.
“She says that it hurts,” and he taps his chest with two fingers. “Her heart hurts.” Two of the women usher her away. No one wants to be here anymore. Still they are invited inside and sombrely, the men try to keep to themselves as much as possible.
An hour has passed and he is holding a glass of lemonade (a special treat the centre prepared for their visit). He pushed open a set of doors and stands inside the fenced in area. There are three little girls outside playing, happily unaware of the heat. One looks very young and he almost smiles before he realizes why she’s here. He feels sick to his stomach. She can’t be more than five years old. What kind of monster would abuse a child like that? The two older girls giggle and wave him over. They look to be about nine or ten years old. They look like sisters, he thinks. He smiles as gently as he can and crouches down. He keeps a good distance between them and him, he doesn’t want to frighten them.
The girls talks at him, although he has no idea what they are saying. They says names (he assumes) and point to themselves. So he tells them his name and points to himself. They laugh again, covering their mouth with their hands. The little one doesn’t speak or laugh. She ignores him. The older girls motions for him to hand over a plastic shovel that is beside him. He picks it up and hold it out to the little one. She doesn’t take it and he thinks for a moment that she hasn’t seen him. He gently taps the handle on her arm to get her attention. The giggling sisters stop laughing and he realises the little girls is peeing on the ground. She says something and then says it again and then starts to cry and says it through sobs. The two girls jumps up, scoop her into their arms and run inside with her.
It is five minutes before he can move again. He stands, smelling the urine bake in the heat. He kicks some dirt over the spot and then walks back inside. The others have gathered in the front lobby and he joins them. The translator come to stand beside him and says something. He shakes his head, it was probably in English but he still didn’t understand.
“You’re shaking. Are you alright?” He shakes his head and then shrugs and nods. He says the phrase the little girls said to him outside. The translator looks taken aback.
“What does that mean,” he asks the man.
“Where did you hear that? Who said those words to you?”
“What does it mean?” The translator shakes his head, looking wary and confused. He take a breath and never breaking eye contact he says “Please don’t hurt me”.