Hate the Sin

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Corpse Eater was sitting on a dusty side of the hill, his right hand resting on AK-47. The hot African sun was setting beyond the hills on the other side of the river, and its rays were peeking into Corpse Eater’s eyes, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy’s mind.

He observed how his comrades—Homewrecker in his orange T-shirt with a Fanta print, Puppy Slayer (the shortest and the youngest), Marlboro Man in his denim jacket which he had found somewhere, and Desecrator with his red headband—were playing football with an improvised ball, a particularly large clew of old scotch tape. Its edges were hanging loose, collecting dust and sand on the sticky side.

They were having fun, as was evident by the fire of excitement in their eyes, but just as usual, their faces were serious, their tiny hands curled up into fists. At any moment, they were ready to abandon their game and charge toward the weapons they left beside the football field, dodging bullets of possible assailants. They were warriors first and children second, or at the very least that was what General Malaria had always told them. Then again, he didn’t consider them to be kids at all—according to him, every boy became a man the first time he saw the light fade in the eyes of his enemy. Thus in his eyes, they were all men.

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