He awoke with a blank expression on his face, rubbing his eyes fiercely to try to separate reality from dream. The apartment was worn and battered, the paint varnished and the wood peeling off the weak structure. They stood at the tattered door, their bandanas etched with Islamic lies, their beards scratching against the dark surface of their skin. The two men’s were ragged and their clothes waxy and torn, their eyes were colored with the evil and brainwash of Ayatollah speeches. Mouths parched and their skin cut in sacrifice to Allah, the blood stream trickled down their cheeks in celebration, color jumping about. Had the eyes of a ram they did, yellow and piercing, ready to kill. There were a couple words exchanged, he couldn’t hear them clearly, though they were adorned with hatred. He spread out his blankets, attempting to get out of the bed and the left man boomed two straight shots, the ear-splintering racket sending a jolt the child’s defenseless heart. The blood simmered and sunk through the thick carpet, his clothes coated with the thick aroma of onions and blood as the shrieks began, those terrible shrieks. The acrid reek of flesh circled the room. The men ran off with a fading howl, the tip-tap of their shoes taking them anywhere their feet would take them, fast as lightning. Bolting into the night’s protection, it’s dismal appearance keeping them safe from consequence, laughing heartily as it gave yet another refuge to a monster. The last echoes of the night as the boy stood over the man, his brown hair dangling before his face and tears escaping from his mystified eyes. It smelled like death, pure and unconditional death and all he could say was “My uncle is dead. My uncle is dead.”