Bullets whizzed past him. Bullets which barely missed him. His friends, Ahmad and Ali fell to the ground, blood dripping from their heads. Bodies of other comrades fell beside him, behind him, but he pressed on.
His fingers arched from firing at his enemies non-stop. But he dared not stop firing. Survival was the issue. It was either him or his enemies. He rather it was his enemies, rather than him. He continued firing at his enemies.
Finally, his enemies retreated. So, he had survived another day.
The boy soldier took out the bible someone had given him before the battle and read. Who is this Jesus whom the bible talked of? He healed the sick, raised the dead, was meek yet unafraid of the soldiers. In fact, at his voice, they fell back.
Yet, this same man did not resist them. He could, but he chose not to. Instead, this Man chose to die that others might live.
The boy wept.
Jesus, my hands are stained with blood. Will you forgive me, please?
The boy slept well, gripping his bible more than he gripped his rifle.
