What I Expect

Kefi

!WARNING - Disturbing imagery, reference to real life historical conflicts, just some triggering stuff in general in this chapter!

2005, Pre-Egyptian Revolution, Pre-President Morsi

The door is wood-panelled and hidden behind mounds of brick and debris. Though whoever concealed it was sloppy and left the top corners exposed, the faintest outline of footprints in the surrounding dust. "Efteh al-bab ' esteslim!!" screams the head of this operation in his native language, not the language of this country. Soldiers dressed in the flashy colours of the subordinate ranks appear behind him as a stronghold. To no response from whoever is inside, the general beats in the door with a heavy boot, soldiers spilling into the small bunker from either side of him. Two adults, a man and woman of similar age stand in the centre of the small house, armed with rifles and one has a dagger in a pouch wrapped around their leg. Both of them have dazzling silver hair.

The spiky-haired general's orders were shoot to kill, and the soldiers do just that. In the midst of screaming and gunfire,, bursts of blood explode from the bodies and slickly coat the walls. The general orders the soldiers, with a crookedly sadistic grin, to burn down the place. But a small rustling from within makes him order them to halt with a single hand gesture. The general steps silently on the stone floor until he sees a tiny circle of blackness on a kitchen cabinet door, like a peep hole to look through. It's a small, thigh-high cabinet for keeping dishes and things of that nature in. Except all the dishes are stacked on the countertop.

He opens the cabinet door to reveal a tiny child curled up inside. Malnourished and trembling, the child stares at the general with cold, dead eyes. Fresh blood runs down his face - he's been grazed by a bullet, one that straight missed his parents and splintered the cabinet door. The general whistles. "You're one lucky brat," he says in Arabic. Reaching down, he picks up the terrified child and nestles him into his arms. Turning around, his gaze alone orders his men not to object. "Let's go, they don't have anything of value,"

The child watches his home burn down, getting smaller and smaller as they drive farther away, but the fire only gets bigger and bigger. The intimidating 4-by-4 jostles the child around, his head softly banging against the window. He's numb to it, at least enough not to instinctively pull away.

"What's your name?" the general asks to no response. "Do you speak Arabic?"

The child's eyes don't shift, there's no sign he even heard. "English?"

He look up. "A little English," his voice is surprisingly low and controlled, his tone mature, calm. That of acceptance. Despite how terrified he was, the child is acting like nothing even happened.

"What's your name?" the general asks, this time in English.

"Akefia,"

The general nods, a smirk of satisfaction spreading across his face. "Your name is Kifiya," he corrects.

"No, Akefia,"

"Kifiya," this time his voice is stern, a dangerous fire in his eyes promising punishment for another slip of the tongue. Akefia just looks away. The rest of the journey is spent staring longingly out at acres of barren desert broken up by the infrequent dilapidated towns.

Their trucks return to their military base, waved easily through the fences with a respectful nod from the guard. A cheaply made but immaculate white home overshadows the base, two storeys with at least ten rooms in total. Having never left his tiny village, Akefia is stunned to see such a spectacle. They even have a balcony! "This is my home temporarily, while we are stationed here," the general states, grabbing Akefia by the upper arm and dragging him from the truck to the home, destroying what meagre chances of escape he had. "It is your home now, too. But do not treat yourself as the homeowner,"