An excerpt from An Unlikely Accomplice, my short story in a new anthology, The Turning Point.
A strange mix of citrusy fragrance infused with phenyl and medication made Brigadier Khanna’s nostrils twitch and woke him up from the fangs of endless slumber. Something prevented his right eyelid from opening and it wasn’t just the pounding headache. It felt like a paperweight balancing on his eyeball. He attempted to lift his right hand to yank out whatever was mounting pressure on his eye when he felt a whiplash, as if his wrist were chained to something. With a half open eye, he tried to bring the blurred ceiling back into focus. Clean. White. Exempt from dangling fans. There was no hint of chipping paint on it. There were no destructive sounds of violence from the distance. No loud shrills from victims being tortured. No stench of urine, sweat or blood. He knew it right away. It wasn’t what he’d suspected in his subconscious state. There hadn’t been a war. No war. No prisoner of war. No such luck. He’d die a war virgin.
A strange mix of citrusy fragrance infused with phenyl and medication made Brigadier Khanna’s nostrils twitch and woke him up from the fangs of endless slumber. Something prevented his right eyelid from opening and it wasn’t just the pounding headache. It felt like a paperweight balancing on his eyeball. He attempted to lift his right hand to yank out whatever was mounting pressure on his eye when he felt a whiplash, as if his wrist were chained to something. With a half open eye, he tried to bring the blurred ceiling back into focus. Clean. White. Exempt from dangling fans. There was no hint of chipping paint on it. There were no destructive sounds of violence from the distance. No loud shrills from victims being tortured. No stench of urine, sweat or blood. He knew it right away. It wasn’t what he’d suspected in his subconscious state. There hadn’t been a war. No war. No prisoner of war. No such luck. He’d die a war virgin.
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