Nine Eleven (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 16

The door's lock jets loud into the mouth of the lock holder. Mace crawls it's smoky spokes around the other side of the shut door. Omari and Al-Shehri hold the door to the cockpit shut by their bloody hands. The screams of terrified Americans fill the cabin with sweat and mace, as fear drips off Middle-Eastern chins on the other side of the door.

Rushes of batterings clap; Omari can feel the passengers hit the door. Desperation. Each pound surreptitiously echoes in the convex of his thoughts, like patters of iron rain to wash and beat down Omari. Guilt.

Blood is smeared like hot paint against the steel door they hold shut. Its locked, but Omari and Al-Shehri press against it still.

For Omari there is no assurance. As he sees the blood of the child he just killed smoking off his hands, he feels his mind cursively climbing away from him. Slipping.

"Good job," Mohammed speaks.

The room fills with silence.

The leader of the pack rushed the plane onward. Satam remains seated beside him; Waleed stands behind, his hand resting on the head of Mohammed's blue cushioned pilot seat. They face forward into the azure, pacing clouds before them in nonchalance, sailing forward like a bolt of random lightning searching for destruction. To Tower One. Omari can't understand their apathy.

Omari and Shehri move from the door. Their red handprints remain smeared upon it's white steel frame. They turn around and make their way further inside the cockpit. They take a seat across from each other and across the room. Omari sat behind Mohammed and his lieutenant. Al-Shehri rubs his wet hands against his pant legs, it smears throughout his khaki pants. Blood remains between his fingers.

Pensive, Omari rubs his red hands together; he feels the wetness of the blood squish. He sits staring at his hands. His red hands. He smooths and rubs them together as if cleaning them, smearing the blood in small subtle noises. He stares intently at the wetness, the fresh blood cooling through each abrasion of his hands. His fists curl collectively about one an other. Blood drips sporadically onto the carpet. He watches it each drop fall from his hands to the ground.

He remembers the girl, her face. Her eyes. Her hair. Her white skin. The sound she made as he hurt her.

As he cut her.

And the face of her father as took her life. Hatred takes over his thoughts. Self-hatred. His thoughts echo in his head:

"With what life do I smear the door? Where I painted my name without guilt. Who's blood? Not mine. Who's blood? Poor child. Poor baby. Sad, sad child. And I wrong myself-self, self! Hear me! Hear me despotic unction of a vile despotic greed-you're a villain! Black and mossy teethed, clawed and tameless. Evil. Hungry. And with that same hunger implore the base and vile world bend their will to null. I bend their thoughts to fear, and in the same unction bend depravity over self. I hunger to eat of roasted peace, to maim the thick and juicy thigh of justice. To self, to self-you stupid bastard! Hell has a home for you! I hate you! I hate me! Yet still I but drink my breath and take in still this drowning-I live still! I impose religion. Of course. Religion. Then let this bloody motion smoke my name and smack the worlds walls with the blasted horns of Allah!-what echoing excess fills the wonder-less corners of my mind. Can nothing fill my mind but this conscience? Damn you exile, leave me! This heavy ghost collides within, shaking this worthless skin!"

Mohammed pulls the microphone to his mouth. His voice grumbles deep over the intercom: "everyone on the plane keep calm. We have some planes. Just stay quiet and you'll be O.K. We are returning to the airport."

Co-pilot Satam turns his head around and grins sardonically at Omari. He knows the young man feels guilty. He mocks him with his smile. Shehri gets up from his seat to sit beside Omari across the small room.