Chapter 1 :Witch Hunt
15 days before the Invasion
Evening strikes as the gloomy Razian sky is momentarily lit up with fireworks. Despite the endless gloom, the pandemic agony dissipates to scattered morsels of content and unlikely celebrations. Like many kernel heads on the bustling Cornwell Street of her beloved home, Simran is on her way to the only florist shop at the downtown. Over the past few years, her business as a Razian woman is doing steadfast. For this 26-year-old, her pendeloque face appears to be carved out with the finest sculpting tools. The curls droop along her marcelled midnight hair. Her beauty only seems to be a pedigree, inviting the most ‘anticipated’ hunt. Those eyes are placed perfectly and so does an apparent and strange goal of her life. The goal that glows like ember for many ALIKE in this war torn territory, is believable and candid.
The brutal murder of her mother leaves her with timeless grief and an onus to make something of herself - a proud Razian. Her commitment is comparable to the resilient Lotus and the blood inside her exudes the audacity of rose. That radiance on her visage perhaps shrouds the rugged and jarred texture of her palms. Callus like clamp shell, are the hams of her hands, hardly literal in context of her ‘usual’ chores. Only she knows, what lies beneath those decorated shelves. The rise in killings also sees a soaring demand for a ceremonial farewell. No doubt, the florists are having a run like a charm.
Beyond the usual transactions in her life, Simran is preparing for redemption again as she does every 15 days. But times are crooked, and such an interval can be abysmally shortened. The wolves can be at her doors anytime. Cloaked in the splendor of bouquet ambushes a SPAS 12, the deadly shotgun which she has known to wield since as a 12 year old innocent. She is very cautious and preemptive. Her expertise in arms only bested her beauty. She has acquired the former art inspired by a treacherous journey of her lifetime. A journey only a few lucky survivors tread upon. Her association with the noble troops has become an allegiance devoid of any remorse or retreat. This transformation to a universal soldier at critical times extends to a much larger populace of Razia.
A pleasant tinkling of the wind chimes interferes with her thoughts on purgatory.
“Yes! The doors are open, come on in.” Simran, leans back to her alter ego. Assiduously she lays down the finest of her florist collections.
A girl in her early puberty wobbles to the entrance. Her face is pale with fear and is sweating profusely.
“They killed my sister” She puked herself out in distress. Soaked are her hands in acute redness to testify for the brutality.
Soon the girl finds herself in the embrace of arms. Tears are exchanged and the honors too.
“I want to give them what they gave to my sister- DEATH!!!” the little soul bawls.
Simran realizes the agony and screams boiling in rage. She caressed her hands over the dreaded gun and cleans the sheen on the metal with her own tears.
“Here’s to the death” she pulls out the sacrosanct out from the holy abode and roosts the wrath upon the tiny shoulder of that innocent sufferer.
At that moment of reckoning, the bloody sky of Razia is coroneted with shimmering fireworks. Meanwhile, the lightning strikes at her doors. Two shadows crept on the carpet laden on the wooden floor. Their footsteps could be heard and the little girl’s heart is pounding.
The fireworks outside reach the crescendo. Simran’s determined fingers pull the triggers and the dragon spews wrath on the mortal flesh. The little girl does not whimper as she holds onto the nose of her favorite pet. Her fragile shoulders are bold enough to withstand the recoil. Or is it something else, which keeps her so firmly grounded? She has avenged her sister’s murder. But the task is still half done.
Simran locks down the shop and clamps her tiny fingers with the little’s one. They walk upon a strange road lost somewhere inside the bubbles of grayish smog.
