I hear my little sister crying upstairs. Ever since our kidnappers brought us to this house, with its austere stone walls and iron-barred windows, we have been separated.
I clutch the poppet my sister dropped in the entryway before our captors hustled her toward the upper floors. A bayonet drove me into a room at street-level. I watched the door clang shut, the lock clicking in place.
A staircase leads to unknown rooms. The wooden steps probably creak from age. How many feet paraded up and down their levels? How many hands gripped the iron railing?
My kidnappers must have known about the staircase when they locked me in here. I can imagine them toasting each other with beers, laughing at me, while outside the bullets fly and our people become martyrs for the revolution.
I'm one of those victims. A year ago, a tank crushed my legs, crippling me. Those same soldiers raped my sister then blinded her with a bowie knife.
My kidnappers don’t know this doll is a bomb I will soon activate. My sister and I have agreed to die together. I hope she’ll see in heaven.