K.A.T.E.’s Diary has 13 tales, each of which has changed me forever more. This is number 5.
I called him Ahab the Arab. One mean Iraqi son of a bitch. I would watch him from afar. The pistol wielding, short tempered squat man would not hesitate to beat, abuse and even shoot women. One child he set on fire, the screams I could hear on that breezy afternoon over a half mile away. The screams I still hear to this day; on occasion awakened by them – sometimes prevented even from drifting off to sleep because them.
On one fateful day Ahab the Arab was identified. A target of opportunity and only the four of us knew where he was. He was not why we were there and taking him off the list would compromise far too much. I watched the slaughters, the abuses and even watched him order his mangy ass mutt to attack a toddler.
The days were hot and long. Watching these things happen was a mental torture to wish on no man.
It was an unusually cool morning. Ahab’s pistol was replaced with a machete. He was going to be extraordinarily cruel. The relief of the cool did nothing to ease the discomfort in my gut wondering what he was going to do that day.
A truck was greeted in the courtyard by Ahab. It is who we are waiting for. Instead of engaging we are told to withdraw. Shortly there after, the truck and its occupants left. The long days of observing chalked up to character development training. Instead of pulling back, we waited for the sun to begin to crest behind us. We needed them blinded.
Ahab was not to be outdone by his prior acts of cruelty. The machete was blazing, the women too scared to run. They stood still, heads down hoping to not be the one.
910 yards, dry, still; a cool day turned hot. The machete would fall, but not on any the women awaiting it.
Clear. Oddly so actually. The single best vantage point I have nested in. The even slow pull unleashed two weeks anguished. The recoil straight. No vapor trail would follow, but I knew it was true. Ahab went to draw up his arm in vile hate when the full metal jacket enacted the inertia of kinetic energy in such a way that the signals sending his arm in motion were seized as the spray of blood red gray matter announced he was now a mere dead man waiting to fall. The “martyr” erased by the rogue. By the time the shot was heard a second round was already inbound. That damn dog.
One of Ahab’s cronies moved for cover. Too little too late. The second observation post sounded off with a single shot. He dropped slowly and silently. Another stood still, hands out from his sides facing into the sun; praying. He waited, I left. No shots followed that day.
Remorse; none. Ahab the Arab was maniacal and merciless. He was the banality of evil incarnate.
Going in to this, the last thing in the world I expected to encounter was a person such as Ahab. You hear about them, you read about them, but you never expect to experience them. They are supposed to be there and we are supposed to be here. Two opposite entities in a world that are never to cross, or so we think. They both exist; they are just not supposed to intertwine. It is horrid when they do.
Regret; I really did not have to kill his dog.
That scream has come back in recent hours. The boy burning alive before my very eyes. The sickening feeling came back with that scream, that shrieking. I woke to it at two this morning and saw not the child but the dark lifeless eyes of Ahab. When I hear the screams, I always see the eyes; always. So many times he looked directly at me. He’d stop and stare as if he felt me watching. My pillow covered in sweat as I arose in the wee hours to not return to sleep. They give me headaches you know, the night sweats. The memories of Ahab and what seems like so many others. A crucifix that connects the days of the past to today and the days of tomorrow. My burden for my deeds, actions for which only I can atone.
It’s a burden that haunts. It chews away at you slowly and methodically. You think it goes away while in reality it roots itself deeper while you are not paying attention to it. It’s an ugly world when the bringer of death is the protector of life. Polarities united in one. An awful, awful, wakeful world.
They’re repressed. Ahab and the others. Compartmentalized and relegated to the darkest corners of my soul. A place to which I unconsciously have sworn to never return. Years later they are escaping. Compartmentalizing them means compartmentalizing my entire life, something I am extremely skilled at anymore. Because they don’t mix well, nothing can mix. Opening up means letting them out. Ahab deserves to not have his story told, he deserves to rot in the bowels of hell. Even his despicable side need not be known to you. His memory should have perished and burned with him. His existence completely erased.
Ahab was number five. What scares me most about Ahab; I felt nothing. Never even watched him fall; dismissed him when I pulled the bolt action to the rear. Trained on the dog is what I did. That was sheer and honest hate. A feeling that none of us should have towards the other. Ahab is why my temper is controlled to the degree that is today. To get that angry, that hateful towards another can never again happen. Some have seen it my eyes. “You have rage PJ.” Dawna Wilson once said to me. She had no idea.
I called him Ahab the Arab. One mean Iraqi son of a bitch. I would watch him from afar. The pistol wielding, short tempered squat man would not hesitate to beat, abuse and even shoot women. One child he set on fire, the screams I could hear on that breezy afternoon over a half mile away. The screams I still hear to this day; on occasion awakened by them – sometimes prevented even from drifting off to sleep because them.
On one fateful day Ahab the Arab was identified. A target of opportunity and only the four of us knew where he was. He was not why we were there and taking him off the list would compromise far too much. I watched the slaughters, the abuses and even watched him order his mangy ass mutt to attack a toddler.
The days were hot and long. Watching these things happen was a mental torture to wish on no man.
It was an unusually cool morning. Ahab’s pistol was replaced with a machete. He was going to be extraordinarily cruel. The relief of the cool did nothing to ease the discomfort in my gut wondering what he was going to do that day.
A truck was greeted in the courtyard by Ahab. It is who we are waiting for. Instead of engaging we are told to withdraw. Shortly there after, the truck and its occupants left. The long days of observing chalked up to character development training. Instead of pulling back, we waited for the sun to begin to crest behind us. We needed them blinded.
Ahab was not to be outdone by his prior acts of cruelty. The machete was blazing, the women too scared to run. They stood still, heads down hoping to not be the one.
910 yards, dry, still; a cool day turned hot. The machete would fall, but not on any the women awaiting it.
Clear. Oddly so actually. The single best vantage point I have nested in. The even slow pull unleashed two weeks anguished. The recoil straight. No vapor trail would follow, but I knew it was true. Ahab went to draw up his arm in vile hate when the full metal jacket enacted the inertia of kinetic energy in such a way that the signals sending his arm in motion were seized as the spray of blood red gray matter announced he was now a mere dead man waiting to fall. The “martyr” erased by the rogue. By the time the shot was heard a second round was already inbound. That damn dog.
One of Ahab’s cronies moved for cover. Too little too late. The second observation post sounded off with a single shot. He dropped slowly and silently. Another stood still, hands out from his sides facing into the sun; praying. He waited, I left. No shots followed that day.
Remorse; none. Ahab the Arab was maniacal and merciless. He was the banality of evil incarnate.
Going in to this, the last thing in the world I expected to encounter was a person such as Ahab. You hear about them, you read about them, but you never expect to experience them. They are supposed to be there and we are supposed to be here. Two opposite entities in a world that are never to cross, or so we think. They both exist; they are just not supposed to intertwine. It is horrid when they do.
Regret; I really did not have to kill his dog.
That scream has come back in recent hours. The boy burning alive before my very eyes. The sickening feeling came back with that scream, that shrieking. I woke to it at two this morning and saw not the child but the dark lifeless eyes of Ahab. When I hear the screams, I always see the eyes; always. So many times he looked directly at me. He’d stop and stare as if he felt me watching. My pillow covered in sweat as I arose in the wee hours to not return to sleep. They give me headaches you know, the night sweats. The memories of Ahab and what seems like so many others. A crucifix that connects the days of the past to today and the days of tomorrow. My burden for my deeds, actions for which only I can atone.
It’s a burden that haunts. It chews away at you slowly and methodically. You think it goes away while in reality it roots itself deeper while you are not paying attention to it. It’s an ugly world when the bringer of death is the protector of life. Polarities united in one. An awful, awful, wakeful world.
They’re repressed. Ahab and the others. Compartmentalized and relegated to the darkest corners of my soul. A place to which I unconsciously have sworn to never return. Years later they are escaping. Compartmentalizing them means compartmentalizing my entire life, something I am extremely skilled at anymore. Because they don’t mix well, nothing can mix. Opening up means letting them out. Ahab deserves to not have his story told, he deserves to rot in the bowels of hell. Even his despicable side need not be known to you. His memory should have perished and burned with him. His existence completely erased.
Ahab was number five. What scares me most about Ahab; I felt nothing. Never even watched him fall; dismissed him when I pulled the bolt action to the rear. Trained on the dog is what I did. That was sheer and honest hate. A feeling that none of us should have towards the other. Ahab is why my temper is controlled to the degree that is today. To get that angry, that hateful towards another can never again happen. Some have seen it my eyes. “You have rage PJ.” Dawna Wilson once said to me. She had no idea.
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