The Ravage of Curran

Curran was about nineteen when the war finally broke. He had seen the horror of death and destruction. He had seen the horrors of rape. He had seen much.

He had holed up in a crumbled remnant of a university he could no longer remember. He knew he was safe. The soldiers had long ago abandoned this playground.

He was alone. His father having passed away when he was five, his mother strangled to death by a soldier who didn't like how much she fought against him. He ran then. He ran long and hard trying to forget the pain and anger on his mother's face and the curses of the military man who took her from him. He was afraid and so young.

He wandered his native land for months before coming to rest at this sad reminder. He knew he was somewhere in Scotland, but it resembled nothing he had ever seen before. So, he quit running. He quit caring. He almost quit living.

What would be the point to my death? Just one more body decaying on the motorway with an eon of grief to speak on. His mind sometimes bothered him more than the situation.

It was a clear day for once. The radiation was minimal and the sun was actually shining brightly through the dank clouds. He still felt so ill, but he smiled at his good fourtune of seeing such a lovely sight.

He walked for miles, not caring where he was going. He only knew that this was the day that he was going to enjoy in his memories for the rest of his life. The countryside looked delicious to his hungry mind and he absorbed all he could in order to make it through the next years of his life.

SO far into his own mind that he hadn't heard the footsteps behind him. It was too late when he finally noticed the voices behind him.

Curran turned and he was attacked swiftly and mercilessly. He knew that he men who grabbed him were ready for serious trouble and he could do nothing about it.

Curran closed his eyes and wished hard at that moment that he had been taken in the original blasts. His fate becoming a reality he no longer wished to know.

He lost his breath as he was tossed into the shrubs at the side of the road. He tried to come to his knees to run but he was mashed down by a large force. The body of a sick and demented tormentor roughly cut off his airways with his weight. All the struggles would have never freed him and he relented with a sigh.

The next sensation Curran had was his trousers being torn from his legs and his shirt wrenched over his shoulders to keep him from fighting up.

The man came up behind him and fell into his body. Curran screamed for his sanity and strength to no avail. He didn't bother to fight knowing he had no way to conquer them all alone. The smell of the soil and the sweaty musk of his attackers made him nauseous. He vomited as he was violated. He felt as though he was being torn apart with a rolling iron.

The counterparts were taunting him. He felt several kicks and jabs as he was beaten. The humilitation was almost intolerable. Who would know what happened unless he told. He never would.

He tried so hard to faint, hoping that the Lord would somehow find mercy and relieve him of this constant agony, but the burning and aching kept his faculties.

He paid no nevermind when they all had him.

It was over soon enough.

He laid still, waiting for dusk to cover his steaming body with the coolness of stealth. He was stiff and almost unable to move, but he found the inner will to keep going.

It was almost dawn when he finally reached home. He had never been so glad to see such a pathetic ruin in his life.

It took him two hours to draw enough water for a bath. He didn't mind that it was cold. He just needed to be clean.

It was during his twentieth year he had decided to leave England. It was no longer called England by then. It was a New World Order.

So, he left Running Revival with nothing but his knowledge and his body. It took him a long time, but he walked and, once, boated to reach Full Void. Africa. He remembered it from when he was younger.

The continent was now ninety nine percent desert with only a small fraction on the western coast and a three hundred kilometre space in the midst of that hellacious void habitable.

"That is how he got there. Why he stays there is another story."

"I had no idea, sweetie."

"No one does. Except for you and for me."

"I see."

"Why do you cry, Indira?"

"For you, my love." "Why for me?"

"Because the pain and bravery to tell that story is too much for me." She got out of bed and went to the window. She took out a cigarette from her jacket and turned back to the man under the covers.

She admired him. His green eyes. His curly brown hair never really settling on a style. His goatee would be very sinister if she hadn't known him so well.

She really loved the whore. She felt terrible that he had to be a prostitute, but he had no other real skills. So there he was, sitting in his bed, the lines n his face telling a larger story.

"Come here, Indira."

She dropped her unlit cigarette to the floor and crawled in next to him.

"I want to have you one more time before you go."

"Here, let me get some more money."

"I don't want it."

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing. But I know that you really do care about me and that is better than all the money I could ask for. No one has given me what you have."

"Well, I have been coming here for five years."

"And only to see me. For someone like myself it means more than you could know."

"I know it more than you think."

"Let me love you, this time."

"You always do, Curran. You always do."

To be continued