The Bonfire Heart of DB Winters by Adnan W Sarwar
She was already outside her house when I arrived in a sweaty mess.
‘D.B, are you okay?’ she began, startled in a dressing robe and a white scarf wrapped around her magnificent face.
I held both her hands and spoke to her for the final time.
‘Jeremy shot a little boy dead. So, I shot him dead. Zia…I have to hand myself in. If I don’t, General Command will come and wipe out the entire street thinking it is infested with rebels. I will say I shot both the boy and Jeremy. I will say I was drunk. I will say I lost my mind. I will say anything to ensure this street continues to live’
I will never forget those eyes. She was stunned. Her bambi eyes were trying to register all that she had heard. Seconds can seem infinite in the face of life and death.
‘No!’ she started, before I put my hand to her mouth.
‘There is no time to convince me otherwise. I killed a man and God knows I will not let more die,’ I said firmly, holding back my tears, ‘Hold onto the locket and remember me for doing the right thing. I love you Zia Esther. There…I said it. I love you.’
I turned away. But my cool temperament finally cracked. Life is a bittersweet mistress for those who are forced to do the right thing by their well-read conscience. I screamed. I bellowed to the skies. The frustration exploded from every pore at the hand I had been dealt. Only a few minutes ago I had been singing the tune of a future bright with Zia in the streets of Tehran.
She ran to me and held me from behind wrapping her arms around my neck.
‘I love you too’ she whispered, her hot tears falling down my neck and the locket hidden behind her cloak touching my back.
*
I was court martialled. I took full responsibility for the incident. I declared myself as a rancid racist who did not crave peace, but relished violence. Months of peace did not sit comfortably with my trigger-happy tendencies. ‘Dirty ragheads’. So, one morning I decided to do something about it. I stepped out at 6am with the intention to satisfy my bloodlust. I saw a small raghead running home. I beckoned him over. I shot him several times. Jeremy ran to me, shocked and horrified at what I had done. He was a decent man. A good man. He had always preached diplomacy. He always ignored my pleas we be more assertive with our rifles. He began to weep at the sight of the dead boy. How pathetic. How weak. We are soldiers. One less scummy raghead in the world, the better. Children grow to be dangerous. Wipe out the problem of future stronger, badder ragheads by killing their offspring, no? So, I shot Jeremy dead. He was a liability for the cause. He deserved to die. This war had no room for passengers, but warriors prepared to do what it took to bring peace to our home nations.
Do not look at me like that, Angel. Do not judge me or think me a coward. Neither give me pity. I did what I had to do. I fulfilled my duty as a soldier. To protect the people under my care. To protect the people I loved. To protect her. If General Command ever knew that little boy was delivering messages, which to this day I am not clear on whether he was or not, they would have wiped out Market Street. I detached myself from my emotions, from my ideals and became a convincing actor. Necessity can make a man fashion some astonishingly believable masks to wear.
The judge accepted my testimony. Jeremy was buried with full honours, remembered as a noble man with ideals. I was sentenced to an Iranian prison and discharged in disgrace. I was a filthy racist child-killing piece of shit. I had no honour. I killed a great man who was loved by the people he served. But I knew the truth. Zia knew the truth. God knew the truth.
I am sure you have seen Iranian prisons, Angel. You took a few souls there. I was sentenced indefinitely to a small cell shared with paedophiles, rebels, rapists and heartless killers. I spoke no words. I remained in silence as they spat, beat and even urinated on me when I slept. But I held on. My heart told me I would see her again. If a man has hope, he can never be conquered by the ills this world can throw at him. There was no more sunlight. The fires raged in every corner of the packed cell. My blood was shaken but my spirit retained resolve. I am not scared of Hell, dear Angel. I was forged in Hell.
Nearly two years passed before we were informed the prisons were to be cleared. The government had been overthrown. The rebels had taken Tehran. It was 2030 and the war was dwindling to an end. As in all wars, the virtuous harbingers of democracy often end up negotiating with the men they regard as enemies. The rebels were given Tehran in return for trade arrangements that could allow the shoppers of the great cosmopolitan capitals to continue racking up the bills on credit.
We were all released without question. That hurt. What had it all been worth, if I was released so easily? Angel, I want you to step into my shoes and put your blades down for a few seconds. Close your eyes and imagine the following. You are confined to a dark pit and vilified as a man of disrepute who has murdered a child and a venerable man in cold blood. However, you did not kill the child and secondly, all you did was remove a racist violent brute who would have killed again. Out of no choice of your own, you find a woman you love. It is not a complex myriad of emotion but a simple connection that can only ever be shared by soul mates. But in doing the right thing, you must leave her to the whims of a world pushing the self-destruct button. Now, let me give you the final blow…you somehow, by some absurd bureaucratic miracle, are released and you hope against hope that your missing piece is where you left it. Surely that would be recompense for the unnecessary suffering? God is kind, is He not? He restores equilibrium, does He not?
He is kind but not in ways we can fathom, Angel. Sometimes equilibrium is not restored in this life, but the next.
I picked up my undelivered post as I left the prison. There were several letters. Some from my mother and a solitary letter dated one year ago from her.
*
10 August 2029
DB,
I am sorry. From the very pit of my stomach, I am sorry. There is no way out for me but this, and I hope in time you will understand if you are not dead already. How can I know you are alive? Your locket rests on my neck, which is all I have left. Everyone we hold dear disappears without trace, such is the ferocity of this war.
I want you to know that I am proud of you. The world may forget, but I never will. You did the right thing. But, is it so awful of me to feel selfish? Late at night, when all the menial tasks of the day are complete, I am haunted by questions I feel ashamed to even ponder. Is it wrong that I wish you had not taken those noble steps to protect the lives you were tasked to serve? My hands tremble as I write this -
I question the logic of God. Despite your sacrifice, Market Street has become infested with General Command soldiers and life has become unbearable. The people no longer move with a sense of grace in their heels. We are watched and guns stand at every corner pointed towards our way of life, our children and our hearts. I hold onto the locket, because it reminds me of you and of God. But my resolve has been broken.
I had heard rumours and then I saw crimes. More people were shot. Rape became the pulse of the night, when the demonic side of men could entertain their lust and violate the dignity of the vulnerable. My mother is gone. I am alone and they will come for me. But I will not give them that satisfaction. Even if it is against God, I will not live my life in fear.
I wish you were here. You always had a way with words. Your aura and spirit always made me feel safe. Losing you is a bitter pill to swallow, but I am sure we will meet again.
If you are alive or somehow you escape, I want you to remember to never lose faith. Do not blame God for the tragedies that have befallen us, my love. War is the result of freewill. Not God. We are the masters of our own fates. Turn to Him.
I am resigned to an eternity in Hell. That is the way of suicides. But at least I will die with my dignity intact. I love you. If love is eternal, we will meet again in a place where the backdrop is not war but a celebration of souls who have found the spark to their bonfire hearts in the warm glow of that other who completes our synchronisatio
I will always love you DB.
Zia
*
Freedom comes at a price. Two years in solitary confinement with naught but darkness to cool my flirtations with mental breakdown, and at the moment I am released my heart is stabbed by the blades of fate and thrown to the wolves. Angel, there is something you need to know about a real man. You can torture this man, you can confine him to a prison worse than Hell, you can strip him of his wealth, you can take his limbs or you can strike him down with a debilitating illness that soils his dignity. But it will not break him. He will still stand and ask for one more round unless you kill his propensity for hope. Take away the spark to his heart, and he will break down in a spate of tears and shatter.
What could I do? I travelled to Market Street and found nothing but rubble. She was nowhere to be seen. She had killed herself. Was she a coward? I feel ashamed for even asking that question. Do not forget dear Angel, I am a soldier. Perhaps hardship cannot be endured by the innocent, and they are taken early so as to protect them from defilement.
Do you think me a non-believer? Angel, I am not exactly a pious man. I have taken life. I follow no set path. But I know God exists. If the horrors of war teach a man anything, it is that things can only get better. There has to be equilibrium. Those that suffer in life have to find peace in the next life. God simply has to exist for the purposes of justice.
I left for England. The war was over, but the scars would never heal. The world was entering a new age of prosperity while I entered a brutal liquidation of hope. My mind was disturbed by the fact that she may never glimpse Paradise in the next life. All those I turned to declared the same mantra again and again: suicides go to Hell.
Angel, what could I do? How could I protect her? My heart was torn, twisted and stabbed with flames that depressed me. But a soldier is resourceful and his capacity for sacrifice is great.
I returned to Nelson and made a commitment that I could never return to a normal life again. So, hate it or love it, I turned to my superior. Your superior. God.
I dedicated every day to praying for Zia Esther. Now Angel, this is why I know I am going to Hell.
For 52 years, all I have asked Him is to let me take her place in Hell. I will take the hit if He grants her the Paradise she craves. I have not slept, hardly eaten and burned the candles to the wick.
Now, after decades, He has answered and I feel at peace. I am going to Hell for her, and the love of a young man now weathered by age will finally be realised. God truly is great, is He not Angel?
I am as wrapped up in her as a vine that clings to a tree seeking sustenance. She is tied to me for eternity. She is my home. She is my reason for being. To protect her heart is my only purpose. If it means sacrificing my soul, then so be it.
Angel of Death, take me downstairs. Let an old man fulfil his side of the bargain. This is my wish, my prayer and my duty.
*
Zia’s Paradise
I looked at DB Winters. The man had lived his promise. He was tattered, exhausted, wrinkled but committed, brimming with a fire that reminds even heartless beings like me that man truly is an exceptional creature. I am loath to admit it, but I cried. He put his arm around me.
‘Are we ready, Angel? Can you take me downstairs?’ he asked, eyes wide yet resolute. His body was shaking. Fear. Nobody truly desires Hell.
I was confused. I did not wish to take this man downstairs. His capacity for sacrifice astounded me. I got up and stood, watching the sunset over the hills. There has to be a loophole, I thought. I racked my brains for a way to rescue this man from condemnation. I could not let him go down there. He had no idea of the horrors that awaited him. He wanted to take the punishment of a suicide. To confine him to that particular level of Hell was to sign him away for an eternity. What was his crime? Love? Surely God could not punish that. There had to be a way!
‘Do not worry about me dear Angel,’ he laughed, ‘God’s ways are mysterious’
I took a deep breath. It was time. I took his hand and turned to him for the final time.
‘Is she really worth it, DB? I want you to look deep down and tell me unequivocally she is worth you making this sacrifice’
‘Do you think I am infatuated? Do you think I am mad? My gut says otherwise. They say love is blind. I disagree. Infatuation is blind. Love is all-seeing and accepting. Love is seeing all the flaws and blemishes and accepting them. Love is accepting the bad habits and mannerisms and working around them. Love is recognising all the fears and insecurities and knowing your role is to comfort. Infatuation is fragile and will shatter when life is not perfect. Love is strong and it strengthens because it is real. Goddamn it Angel of Death, love is real’
I bowed to his request. I asked him to close his eyes and took his soul. Hell was always horrible to navigate through. I readied myself to descend to the lower levels reserved for suicides. Normally, you are struck by a pungent smell and a heat that is uncomfortable to Angels and hideously painful for men.
But as the minutes passed, I began to realise there was no pungent smell. Instead, there was the smell of fruit, incense and chattering. I opened my eyes. I was in Market Street with DB.
His sacrifice had been accepted. Zia Esther had been granted Paradise. But her Paradise could never be complete unless DB Winters was there. He stood there in the privy of youth and he ran. The boy ran to the only woman he had ever loved.
-AWS-