text: Salaam/Hello! Before you read this please note that this story is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC! If you are light-hearted or sensitive to such material then please do not read this. If however you do read it then please read it till the end. This story is meant to portray a fraction of the possible cruelties which the people of Syria might be facing. DAMSEL IN DISTRESS The bullets whizzed past. People were getting gunned. Debris was clouding everything. The storm of blood, sand and stone resonated in the eyes of everyone leaving pulses of fear in their hearts. They were scarred for life. The militants of the regime kept the civilians pegged down in their base. It was a bottleneck situation. Only one-way out, and it was through the street full of barriers and resistant front lines of merciless soldiers of Bashar's regime. They had snipers placed in strategic wide-angle access points, making sure no one could even lay a foot on the street. The people were pushed back either into their houses or whatever cover they could find from the constant blasts and bullets. Bodies lay in piles down the street and the smell of blood and gun powder staunched the air. One was forced to only two sounds, either screams or bomb blasts. Silence was a forgotten term. Hisham was one of the gunmen. Thirty four killed today, he thought. It wasn't enough. Abbas, one of the other militants, was on forty seven. He just had to beat him. HE HAD TOO !!! He remained behind cover while reloading his rifle. The anxiety was building up in him. Once cocked and loaded he got up and sprayed all the bullets. He just wanted to see them run, to see them cry, to see them afraid. He smiled at his collage of mass murder. No one could touch him. Here he was god. He slumped his rifle over his shoulder and admired his work. They were too afraid to come. Suddenly, he noticed one of the bodies moving among the dead. It was a woman, half conscious she moved weakly. Trying to regain a sense of where she was, but she was defeated by several injuries, lack of energy and mental torture of the battlefield. 'Desert,' thought Hisham. The flame inside him ignited. He motioned to his colleagues on his side to cover him. Walking the past barrier, he went to her and grabbed her by the forelock and dragged her back towards the base. Ignoring the shouting, screaming, kicking and crying from the woman as her body scraped against the rubble and ground, he just had one thing in his mind. Tonight he was having a feast! THE DEVIL'S CELLAR The woman was chained in a dark cellar. It smelled of old dust and musty oil. The bars and walls were covered with cobwebs, and the whole place was cluttered with broken furniture and outdated newspapers. There was a small window behind her where the moonlight trickled in, shining against her bare body. Each hand was tied by rusty chains supported by a post on both sides. She was forced to either stand upright or slump and let the pressure of her body tense the chain around her wrists. She felt a mouse brush her leg and let a scream in fear while jolting. Immediately, the bruises on her body ached even more from the sudden movement. Her tears and sobs dried up. She could do nothing. She was nothing. She was completely helpless. Why didn't they just kill her? She was struck by horror. What they were going to do to her? Suddenly, she hears a scraping rattle against the bars with footsteps. The pace was brisk, haunting, like a panther in hiding waiting to pounce. She could hear the person walking up to her. The moonlight only revealed the boots and military trousers. The upper half was veiled by the lusting darkness. Even so, she could see some smoke. The trail led to cigarette, which was revealed as he lowered his hand and flicked it away. Hisham stared at her. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Sweat pouring from her forehead, her body trembling from fear and her breath racing. Here she was, naked, stripped of dignity and humiliated. He loved the power he had. He was in control, and she was her prey. 'This bitch is mine,' he thought. In a sudden move, he slapped her on the face, leaving a red mark, went behind her pulling her backwards by her hair. He put his hand over her mouth, unzipped his pants and thrust into her. Her scream muffled against the cold, hard fingers, her eyes widened and tears started streaming down her face as she felt him inside her. He handled her fiercely and with each pound, she screamed. “PLEASE STOP!” “NO” “PLEASE!!!" She knew there was no one who could save her. He pushed harder with every force against her with increasing pain. Her legs were trembling. Her body was shaking. With one long last thrust, he pushed away from himself. She slumped helplessly as she cried and moaning. She was defeated. Wiping the sweat of his forehead, he zipped his pants and made his way out. The echoes of the her cries decayed as he walked away. He met three of his men down the corridor. “The bitch is all yours," he said. By the time he reached the end of the long corridor, he could hear the screams all over again. The boys were doing a good job. THE BIRTH OF HOPE Nearly five months passed. The woman repeatedly abused, manhandled and tortured. She was reduced to nothing but an object, a sex object. Even slaves were privileged to have feelings, but hers were dead. The same prison, the same four walls, the same sins every day. Her life was lifeless. Her body lost its stature. There was one significant change. She was pregnant. So many of the militants had their way with her. She didn't know which one fathered the bastard child she was carrying. She could only feel the baby move in her. She didn't care whose it was, it was a life inside of her. It was her baby. Hisham was in the mood again. He strode towards her cell, the urge burning in inside him. There was nothing left in her that attracted him to her except the fear she had in her eyes. However, it eventually died out. She learnt to accept that this was her fate. There was no fun anymore. He wanted to change that this time. He walked up to her near-limp body. Her eyes were blank, expressionless. He grabbed her face, locked into her eyes with a menacing smile. She just looked at him, There was nothing she could feel anymore. He placed his hand on her swollen belly and for a second he saw the jump in her eyes. 'The bitch cared for this kid,' he thought. This was going to be fun. He drew a blade from his side pocket, which gleamed in the rays of sunlight. Her eyes widened. What was he going to do? And without thinking he pressed the knife on top of her belly, under her bosom. She immediately realized the horror she was about to face. Slowly, and yet delicately, he started slicing around the belly. Scream after scream, the pain worsened. The blood trickled down her legs. She tried swerving side to side but the more she moved it hurt and ripped her harder. There was nothing, but she could but watch herself being cut open. Tears were streaming down her eyes. “STOP ... PLEASE STOP ... NO!” Her screams couldn't help her. He kept cutting her open. He was halfway around and then stopped. Her belly was half skinned open, the bloodied internals could be seen from the side. He threw the blade away. She couldn't feel relieved but at least he stopped. The pain was unbearable until he grabbed the open side of her stomach and swung it to the other side to rip her entire skin off. She screamed so loudly, helplessly as she felt pain like never before. Everything was now revealed. Blood was splattered around her feet. She was shaking uncontrollably. She just wanted it to end. He threw the separated flabby stomach skin to side as if it were junk. 'Now comes the fun part,' he thought. He could see the foetus wedged inside her. Ferociously, he grabbed it by the neck and pulled it away from its clove. A few organs slipped and slid to the floor. She screamed. Her baby was in his hands. “Please don't harm it, please don't harm it. It didn't do anything to you. Take me but leave it alone," she cried. Her voice was nearly gone. She was losing too much blood. Her vision started to blur. He looked at the disgusting flesh in his hand. It was weak and pathetic, covered with blood. He grabbed the umbilical cord and ripped it open, separating the thing from the woman. She screamed as the cord hung loosely over her revealed stomach, dripping pus and blood on the floor. He then held the thing in front of her. He let her stare at the unborn baby for a split second before splitting its neck. The baby was dead. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," she screamed. He swung the flesh over his head and pulled out a pistol and shoved it into her mouth. In that one moment, he saw the ultimate fear in her eyes. Covered in tears and blood, she slumped in his mercy. He looked at her long enough to enjoy the product of his work before he pulled the trigger. The bullet went through head and blood splattered against the wall behind her. Her body was completely limp as the chains in her hand tensed under her dead weight. Her intestines scrambled to the floor. She was dead. REFLECTION POINT I would first like to apologise if the story disgusted/offended you. But I had to make sure that what I wrote really affected the reader. We have become such a cold-hearted society that we have become apathetic to mass murder. We are witnessing an act of national terrorism, yet it is amazing that we can sit back and watch it happen without doing anything. If you felt anything from this story, be it sadness, pain, hurt, disgust, anger, then please use that to help me raise money for the Syrian people. Don't just sit there and think others are doing something or it won't make any difference.