Wounded Read Free Page B

clutching guns. It was sudden, and it has not stopped.  
    Death is all around now.  
    When the American soldier passed on, we ran, and I pulled Hassan behind me, not looking back at him. Guns crashed and bullets buzzed and ricocheted ahead of us, and I jerked Hassan into an empty building, destroyed by a bomb or a rocket. We hid in the corner and waited.
    And then the American man with the camera came, and he was not a soldier, but still an American. He saw us, and that was when Hassan stepped forward, a gun in his arms, too big for him. I wanted to yell at him, ask him where he had gotten such a thing, but I could not. My throat was closed, and if I yelled, I was afraid the American might have a gun we could not see and shoot us.
    And then the gun went off, the American’s hidden gun. And then I killed him.  
    I heard crying, and I knew it was me. I knew tears would not bring back the dead American. I did not mourn him, for I did not know him. But I mourned his death. I mourned for myself, for having killed him.  
    I see him even now while I am awake two years later, staring at the spot where he died. His blue eyes are wide and staring into me, but not seeing me. Blood spreads beneath him, seeping from the holes in his belly and chest, pools around him. It stinks, the blood. It smells...coppery, and vaguely of shit.  
    I let myself think the bad word, since there is no one to care.
    I blink, and he is gone, leaving me with the bad taste of memories and waking nightmares, and always the gnawing mouth of hunger.
    It is a long walk, and it is well past dark by the time I find anyone. I find a knot of soldiers, black and brown rifles leaning against the wall near their hands, or across their knees. There are seven of them, smoking cigarettes. They talk loudly, proclaim their feats in battle, how many Americans they have killed. They are all liars. I can tell by the way they laugh too loud, laugh through the smoke streaming from their noses.  
    They stop when they see me, and they drag their rifles closer to hand, even though I am Iraqi, and just a girl.
    "What are you doing here, girl?" one of them growls. "It is dangerous. You should be home with your mama and papa."
    I ignore their stupid questions. "My brother..." My voice is soft, too soft. I strengthen it. "My brother ran away to fight. He is only twelve years old. I need to find him."
    They laugh. One of them does not, and he speaks to me. "I saw a boy. Hours ago. With some other men. He had a rifle, and he was shooting it at the Americans. He hit one, too, I think."
    "Stupid boy," I mutter under my breath. "I need to find him," I say, louder.
    The one who spoke shrugs. "Good luck. I only saw him the once, very quickly. He was off to the west."
    I look around me, having no idea which way is west. "Can you show me?"
    He stares at me, then lifts one shoulder. "I could."
    The others are watching me, a look in their eyes that makes me nervous. I want to get away from them.  
    "Please show me? He is just a boy. He should not be fighting."
    "If he can shoot a rifle and kill the infidels, he is a man," one of the others says. "You should go home to your mama and let the boy do a man's work."
    "We have no mama or papa. They died. He needs me. Please, help me find him."
    The strange, hungry look in their eyes strengthens when they realize I am alone, all alone. Their gaze travels down my body, from my ripped hijab to my old dress, my small girl's breasts and my thin legs, the triangle between them visible when a breeze blows my dress flat against me. I know what they want. I know that much. I have seen what men do with women, and I know I do not want it to happen to me with these men.
    I edge away, watching them. They do not move, and the one who said he had seen my brother nods, ever so slightly.
    "I need a drink!" he says, a little too loudly, and the others forget about me as they head off in search of alcohol.  
    They traipse off into the night, and the kinder one looks