Dying hurt. No one had ever told him that. It was easy to conceptualize; the wound, the blood leaving the body, fading out of consciousness. It almost sounded poetic. His assailant twisted the blade, driving it in further. Aaron lurched forward with a cry. He heard sirens. Ahmed barked something in his savage language, and the small crowd of his onetime attendants fled. Fools. These people had proven time and time again to be short-sighted, they would never unify without him.
He had some vague sense of being pulled across the tile. Excited whispers drifted from outside his narrowing visual cone. Aaron's side bumped against a mat, and he lost consciousness.
"Give me one good reason not to kill him now. I refuse to save a monster." "You swore an oath, Miranda."
"...blood loss... a scalpel and some gauze..."
"...the president.. keep him alive."
"...coma..."
He couldn't move. Not that he would've tried, but there was something in the way. Except for his head and neck, Aaron's entire body was numb in a pleasant sort of way. It felt as though he were drifting. With a start, he realized he could not see or hear. It had been awhile since he had used his senses consciously.
There was an increase in vibrations around him, probably foot steps. There was stillness for a time, then more movement, and then stillness again. He slept.
Aaron could use his senses again, but was restrained and gagged. He was in a small room, dimly lit. A man in a uniform stood talking softly to a doctor. He looked over to the bed, and motioned.
"Can he hear me?"
"Yes, the sedative is no longer active."
The man looked down and continued. "I am General Cartwright. Once Doctor Adams deems you reasonably fit, you will be taken to the surface and executed for countless crimes against humanity. I thought you might want to know. It's over. It's all over."
Aaron remained in the room for the next two weeks, until he could walk. The day after, he was sedated and flown to Texas. He awoke in a white room to physicians ushering him up. He walked out into the midsummer heat in a daze. Walls a hundred feet high rose on every side. Before him stood six uniformed marines. The physicians secured him to the center pull and scurried back away. At noon, they fired. The once-mighty warlord sagged against the leather straps and gasped out his last breaths. His eyes slid closed as the marines fired another round.
31 years prior and not so far away, a blonde-haired brown-eyed boy of six woke from a night of terrible dreams. Half-remembered aerial bombings melded with torture chambers and bowed dignitaries, pushed away for know. Aaron Carlson was a slight boy, but gifted and intense. He smelled toast.
He crept down the stairs, confused about something just beyond his perceptions. His mother and sister sat at their small table, sipping and laughing. They noticed him, and called out. Aaron lurked behind the railing. There was talk of cake and presents. He emerged.
For a few moments, he was caught up in that simple life.
"You'll never guess what I got you!" his mother exclaimed.
"The red car from the toy store, a new pair of socks, and a dictionary." he answered instantly. Today had been one of his favorite days... but wait, that wasn't right. How had he known...
His mother recovered admirably, shaking her head and sighing. She got up to retrieve the sad-looking red bag anyway. At that moment, the smell of burning toast wafted to the table.
Aaron gasped and froze. Memories pushed at the edge of his consciousness. No. They pushed harder. A wall broke. Images flashed; sirens, a wide blue sky, his fiance leaving the taxi, sirens. She smiled at him. Sirens. The car exploded, throwing him to his knees. He looked up, and he regretted it. The screams were the worst part. He watched her burn, helpless. HE WATCHED EMMA BURN.
Aaron started screaming. He convulsed, unable to understand his feelings. It all came back. His obsession with power, the temptations of a world at peace, the first steps. All of it. He turned to his mother. In her eyes, a million innocents burned.
"I'm... I'm sorry..."
She seemed alarmed, but laughed. "It's alright, Aaron. It's all alright."
Yes, yes it was all OK he surmised. But he was not.
And so Aaron went to school the next day, and the day after, and so on. There were few causes of alarm until the school janitor found him, hands raw and bloody, trying to "wash off the blood." His suicide five years later was ruled a tragedy, the final act of despair from a troubled and misunderstood mind.
Oftentimes, a new beginning functions as a chance for renewal. Sometimes, however, the only thing renewed is our pain.