I had my sights on him. He was a terrorist, a disturber of peace, lurking like a coiled snake in the shadows.
I adjusted my back-sight to fifty metres, and gripped my weapon tightly.
Sweat beaded on my neck and forehead, as the hot Arabian sun beat down on me.
Suddenly, the terrorist became...
...A guerrilla warrior, a smaller force that I could crush easily with the squeeze of a trigger.
I flipped the safety catch and kept my rifle steady.
I knew without regret that I would take his life.
Without warning, the guerrilla became...
...A freedom fighter, taking refuge in the darkness, defending his home from the greedy West.
The foresight suddenly strayed from the aperture, as I took pity on this boy, who was slightly younger than me, serving his country.
Before my eyes, the freedom fighter was...
...A martyr, fighting for his beliefs, to preserve his morality, to gain honour.
I lowered my weapon, and stood there waiting, as the terrorist raised his weapon,
And a wedge of high-velocity metal struck me in the chest,
Followed by numbness,
And then pain.
As I looked up into the empty, parched sky,
The terrorist stood over me,
Rested the muzzle of his rifle,
On my scalp,
And contracted his finger.
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