War in North Carolina Literature
The gunman’s face flashed with annoyance. He squeezed his trigger, but the assault rifle jammed. There was a metal click, followed by nothing. The world froze momentarily. Even the wind relented, dying to a whimper. For one long second, Aminullah could almost see the individual particles of dust hanging lifelessly in the air around him. He didn’t dare to breathe, lest he disturb them. And then there was a sudden gust. The dust scattered, and the world lurched forward. The gunman cursed and squeezed the trigger again unsuccessfully before reaching for the gun’s magazine. The Hazara driver, meanwhile, made a slight movement. A pistol appeared in his hand as if by magic. Three shots rang out in quick succession. There was an anguished shout and one gunman collapsed, while the other dropped his weapon and turned to flee. A second later, the driver pivoted his arm towards Jawid and fired twice more. The first bullet went wide, but the second seared through the fabric of Jawid’s shalwar kameez,
Self Afflicted (mixed media acrylic, masking tape on canvas, 34x36) by George Scott
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five inches below the collar. Jawid staggered back a step. He lowered his head and stared down in surprise at the blood spreading in a circle around the small hole beneath his collar. Meanwhile, the driver ducked into the car and shouted to his Pashtun colleague, who did likewise. Aminullah watched in horror as his uncle took an uneven step backwards and then fell to the ground. At the same moment, the Hazara driver put his foot on the gas and twisted the steering wheel to the right. The engine roared as the car swerved off the road and then quickly backed up. The driver swung the car around, slammed the gas pedal down, and sped off towards the highway. A cloud of dirt and dust enveloped Aminullah. The particles stung his eyes as he rushed blindly to his uncle’s side. He dropped to his knees. “Uncle,” he said, shaking Jawid’s arm. “Uncle!” Jawid coughed. A few flecks of blood appeared on his lips. His mouth was contorted in fear and surprise. “Uncle,” Aminullah sobbed again. He continued to pull on the sleeve of Jawid’s kameez. Jawid gazed uncomprehendingly at his nephew for a few moments before a glimmer of recognition appeared to flicker across his face. “Little Amin,” he whispered. “Is that you?” “Uncle, yes, it’s me,” Aminullah said. “Please, please tell me what to do.” Jawid coughed again. A thin line of red dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin. “I’m sorry,” he said, faintly. “Uncle,” Aminullah said, as tears ran down his cheeks. Jawid’s eyelids drifted shut. “Tell your father – everything I did – it was just for family, I swear to Allah, “ he whispered, his voice trailing off. “For family – I swear –” Afterward, there was a lengthy silence. Jawid’s breathing gradually became fainter and fainter until finally his chest stopped moving altogether. Aminullah lowered his head and cried for a long time. He sat there, his clothing still streaked with blood, as the Afghan sun continued its slow, apathetic arc across the late November sky. A flock of small, grey-brown birds passed overhead. They shifted directions two or three times before disappearing into the west.