Great Expectations Chapter XXXI

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter XXXI pgs. 203-205

Back in his own home, Alex felt the strange effects from the funeral subside. He telephoned Isabella, his new intern, hoping for some diversion. He tried her landline, then her cell phone, but had to settle for leaving a voice-mail message. After a quick shower, he poured himself a neat Jack Daniels and flipped on the television.

Alex’s mind was too keyed up to sleep, so he surfed the channels looking for some news. The troops were invading Fallujah, and Alex wanted to see what the media was doing with it. The kind of coverage they gave was extremely important. Fallujah’s invasion was a great opportunity for P. R. What with war stories, explosions, heroes, and villains, Fallujah was the stuff that Americans craved, and it was Alex’s job to make sure that the media made the most of it.

Flying debris filled the TV screen, as a wall crumbled leaving piles of rubble and a small pit - dead as the moonscape. The scene shifted, and yet it looked almost the same. This time khaki-clad soldiers, ducked behind stone walls, their rifles at the ready, then darted into the open accompanied by rapid bursts of rifle shots, explosion sounds, and shattering rocks. And suddenly Alex’s hunting instinct took over and he was curious. What had they shot? Did they kill anyone, or did the Iraqis get away?

The camera moved on to a small cluster of houses, some lying in rubble. Every few seconds, a series popping noises sounded signifying distant explosions. Then, louder than the others, an explosion blasted one of the largest wall still standing, causing the camera to shake and the picture on the screen to tremble. Behind the wall, rockets of fire burst from inside a home, shooting towards heaven. Above the fire, a smoke cloud - thick, smothering, and greasy black plumed upward out of the growing flames.

Crying and screaming erupted, and three women, all thick-wasted, their heads draped in coarse brown headscarves, emerged from the remains of the house. They raised their eyes upward looking to their God to save them. One was limping; another held a bleeding hand. And they wailed, their voices high pitched, calling Allah’s name, again and again till the words blurred into a single chant - Allah, Allah, Allah - over and over.

Alex shook. He reached for the brandy, and upset the glass with his trembling fingers. It was a five-second scene at most. They shouldn’t be showing this – the women hurt and crying. They looked far too vulnerable, too human.

The scene shifted. Two men carried a screaming boy on a makeshift stretcher. Alex had missed the narrative. Was it the terrorists that caused this or was it American soldiers? They’d better not show a bleeding boy unless the enemy was responsible. He looked about eight years old. Blood drenched his clothes and covered most of his face. A thick scar cut through his right eye, and, as he wriggled and screamed, he reminded Alex of the picture of the rabbit held pierced in the eagle’s claws. As Alex tried in vain to distance himself from the suffering on television, the sensation of burning and torn flesh took hold of him, and his breath turned to panting.

He tried to reach for the remote, but his fingers wouldn’t work. He imagined the stink of burning flesh and tasted vomit and blood on his tongue. Once again Alex reached for the remote, but his hands were still shaking and he knocked it to the floor instead. Before this, he’d watched the fighting scenes, mesmerized, feeling strong and righteous and always wanting more. They reminded him of playing soldier as a boy, hiding behind trees shooting guns that were really sticks and making bam bam bam noises. But now, somehow, he felt sickened instead, and identified with the prey instead of the hunter.

Then they showed coffins, row after row, each draped by an American flag. Red, white, and blue - the colors of freedom, the colors of blood and death. Alex stared at the flags, the red and the white stripes pulsing like a strobe light. He watched the coffins roll by, still tasting blood in his mouth, and he shook and shivered, his skin goose-bumped, his soul cold as death and full of fear. “Turn it off.” Alex spoke the words out loud, shouting to the ceiling. He was losing his mind. On his hands and knees, he fumbled around the floor for the remote, but couldn’t see for the tears in his eyes.

Blood red, steel blue, death-pale white. Alex stared. The newscaster read on. “…one thousand two hundred and twenty one American and allied soldiers killed in Iraq. Most died after the war was officially over.” In a panic, he flipped over magazines and newspapers. He looked under the chair. It had to be somewhere. “…the president warns that hostilities will not be over any time soon.” Finally, Alex found the strength to walk over to the television set and turn it off.