My stories!

Name: Vani
Student ID: S10032332G
Tutorial Group: T1B3
Draft Stage: Final Draft
Date of draft: 26 January 2006
Title: Scarlet Snow

Arya stares out of the small barbed window. His teary green eyes looking at the scarlet rose against the pale snow pensively. The rusty window grills scratch deeply into his flesh as he tries to grab the flower. He jerks when he hears the sound of heavy footsteps. The shaky wooden door barely holds on to its hinges as merciless boots kick it open. Eyes, wide with hate narrow as they enter. Hooded men with rifles stand in front of him. They throw a rusty plate with stale bread and overcooked lentils. Staring at it with great revulsion, his weak fingers crawl and push back the plate. The hooded men kick back the plate, shattering the plate into pieces. Only shards of glass are left behind.

The wooden planks begin to shake as they rush down the stairs, cursing in an unknown language. Arya presses his ears against the rotting musty wood. And waited. Nothing. Finally he hears the discussion of grim voices.
“… vest…felt for miles…is it ready?
“…use him!…”
“set 5 minutes”
A lone teardrop leaves a trail on his sunken cheeks as his lean body slowly slumps to the ground. Arya’s blank eyes scrutinize the room. There is nothing much his eyes can rest on in the vacant attic except the carving on the floor. The rusty nails on the floor pierce through his flesh as he drags his limbs across the jagged wood planks. Picking up a piece of glass, he begins to carve on the floor vigorously. The glass cuts deeper and deeper into his palm as he carves with desperation. Blood slowly dripping from his palm fills up the crevices in the carving. A sole beam of light from the window illuminates his bloodied carving on the wooden floor.

Just then, the door slams open as three hooded men rush towards Arya. One of them pins him down to the floor with his knee. The other twists his arm behind his back. A black hood is tightened over his face despite his attempts to shove it away. His wounded hand grazes the carving on the floor. A trail of blood is left behind as he is being dragged out of the room by his hair, revealing the name, Tarika.

With his hands and legs tied up in a bundle; he is kicked across the staircase; banging against the sides of the wall. He finally lands on the ground. Pushing his head as low as possible, the terrorists punch and kick him one more time before shoving him like a sack of worthless junk into the van. Chants in a foreign language fill the van. Shrouded in darkness, Arya clenches his fist. His body stiffens as a chill runs down his spine. A heavy vest is being strapped on to him tightly. He slowly moves his hand across the heavy vest and feels a square box beneath it. A cold sharp metal presses against his neck and deliberately grates against his skin. Twitching in pain, he closes his eyes and struggles to lift his hand attempting to kiss his white platinum wedding band with fervour.

The van door slides open and his black hood is peeled off his face. Arya shields his eyes with his tied hands from the stark whiteness, which he is exposed to after a week. Frigid wind brushes against his sullen cheeks as he gets untied. His lips contort into a wry smile as the irony becomes evident. He is surrounded by light as he steps into darkness. A foreign chant is being mumbled into his ear as he is brought towards the Nehru Garden. The place is swarming with people. Families and tourists are gathered in large numbers everywhere.

“Stay here and don’t move,” warns a stern voice.
“If you try to ask for help or run away, we will kill your wife,” he says firmly but silently. Arya nods his head in agreement, helplessly. The terrorists walk back, mixing with everyone else, nothing setting them apart from the rest. Giving one final menacing look with their deep set eyes, they climb into the van and speed away. Arya bites his lips in anger and desperation.

His eyes search for familiar faces in the crowd to have one final look at his loved ones. He grips the edge of the bench. The young couple snuggling closely together with their newborn child and the two friends sipping hot coffee as they try to warm themselves with the cup. Tears start to well in his eyes as his fingers move beneath the vest to feel the time bomb again. He clasps his hands in prayer begging for forgiveness; begging for a miracle.

Reddened eyes open slowly to rest on a distant form, which looks vaguely familiar. The soft snowflakes drifting around her create a surreal image. The tender sunlight illuminates her form and makes her stand out from the crowd. When their eyes meet, she gives an unfathomable expression and freezes on the spot. He mouths her name as he realizes who it is… Tarika. He slaps his forehead as he shouts in pain, “It can’t be, it can’t be!” He presses his palms against his eyes and says” its not you, its not you” as he stumbles to the ground in agony. His eyes bulge in horror when he looks at the vest he is wearing and realizes that she has the same one on. He automatically grips the timer with his hands. They both look at the timer attached beneath their vests in hopelessness.
10…9…8…
Fingers unconsciously counting the seconds, he looks into her teary eyes, while holding back his own.
7…6…5…
Tarika’s arms slacken and she drops to her knees. Arya looks at her helplessly and tries to rip the vest from his body. His hands make a final desperate attempt in trying to rip it off.
4…3…2
His assuring eyes look at her. Her desperate eyes meet his. Silence.
1…
A deafening sound rips through the atmosphere. Windows shatter, buildings collapse and it rains flesh and blood. As the dust settles on the debris, stillness prevails. A shiny white platinum wedding band rests on the once milky pure snow now scarlet as the blood seeps through.