This story loosely intergrates current events in Syria.

May 17th, 2012

The boy laid there, spread like an eagle along the arid landscape. He couldn't have been any more than seventeen years old. The heat scorched his already tanned skin, as the final droplet of water trickled down Jamal's dry, cracked lips, the empty bottle discarded to one side. The rocks that dug into his back probably hurt, but he had lost feeling long ago. He was simply waiting. He didn't quite know what for, though. Maybe a vision, maybe a sign, maybe just the cold embrace of death. What eventually came was simple darkness.

Was it hours, days, weeks later? Was it just a dream? These were questions to be answered later, but this place was unfamiliar to Jamal. He had awoken on a bed, the matress was hard and worn. Faded blue tiles lined the room, and had fatigue marks in various colors and places. The ground was simple wood, and the door was slightly ajar.A symphony of sounds shimmied through the small gap - within, Jamal could just make out some hushed voices, straining over a crackling television set. Slightly dazed, the boy slowly placed both feet on the hard, wood flooring, and stood up. His head felt as if it was a nail, being hammered into a shelf, and his head was spinning. Stumbling, he made it to the door, and propping himself against the cool tile as a sharp pain shot through his leg like an out of control train. He winced a little, but managed not to make any noise. Peering through the narrow gap between door and doorframe, he could make out two figures - a man and a woman who seemed to be arguing about something. It was time to bite the bullet.