i could not see where i was going. i was already dead. i do not know how it happened, though it must have been violent to warrant the screams of my mother and father, who laid me out beneath the shroud in the room where i used to sleep as a child. i believe i died of grief, from the loss of my son and brother, taken by the invader. this stranger barbarian killed sixteen pashtuns in total, snuck into their homes in the middle of the night, dragged young boys from their beds and shot them in the mouths, pulled women out into the streets and smashed their heads against the walls. he came with no warning, only a blinding headlight, so they could not see his face as he slaughtered us. the streets of panjwayi ran with blood, and when his bloodlust was satisfied, he pulled all the bodies into the city square, and desecrated them by fire. i could not bear it. the americans had to pay for his crimes.

and no doubt i would have stayed dead, happy to slip the tortured knot of my lonely future, had the soldiers not come to my father's house. a small fire team had become separated from their squad. they had taken heavy fire from the taliban, in retribution for their crimes against my family. they were in need of asylum, and my father--a good pashtun man all his life--could not refuse them. but space was scarce, and he would not let them sleep in the same room as my mother, and so he laid cots out in the room where i was laid. like i said, i could not see from beneath the shroud's white damask, but i could smell their blood the moment they came in the room. i could hear their heartbeats. i could feel their pulses, like earthquakes springing up from the ground.

i waited until the american soldiers were sleeping, and then--like a creaking door--wrested my weary bones from off the cold slab of stone. i did not remove the shroud, but trundled forth from beneath it until i stood over the first of their team. opening my mouth, a violent white light burst forth, which is all the soldier would have perhaps seen, if he waked at all, as i lowered myself upon him and swallowed the soul from out his face. it burned like fire as it traveled down my gullet, and landed in the pit of my stomach like a hot stone. to the second i made my way, though this one was now awake and struggled beneath my grip and begged for his life and cried out in fear. but justice demanded no mercy, and i ate his life like a mantu dumpling.

but the third soldier, now alert and frightened, flung open the door and took to the streets of alkozai. i could hear the patter of his frightened feet, and i pursued, screaming at so high a pitch that the neighbors dogs howled to the moon and birds fell from the sky. the moon was bright and poured into the shroud so that i could see the dust from the streets wafting up at me. so though i could not open my eyes, i followed my nose and ears in pursuit down every alley and city avenue. the soldier stumbled and fell and cried out for mercy and aid. but with every holler i could hear the slamming of doors and windows. the pashtun of panjwayi hovered in their homes, watching the game of cat and mouse. they understood that a sequence of events had been put into motion, one that could not be stopped once begun.

and yet in my mind, i was not the ghoul the soldier saw me as. in the places where my bloodlust abated, i was still a girl of seven or eight, chasing my brother through the streets with a stick, or a woman of twenty, following my young son around the house. rage and joy intermixed, and one picture overlay the other, so that i was driven twice over: in my revenge i would recover the thing i loved. the life the soldier possessed had been taken from me twice over. he claimed for his own that which was rightfully mine, which had been entrusted to me when the invaders took my son and shot him through the mouth and burned my brother's body on a heap of flesh. i would swallow that inheritance down, and then--only then--could i finally rest.

after a long night the soldier began to tire. but nothing could deter me. i could've ran all night. he came to the local mosque and called out for sanctuary, for someone to come and relieve him. but no one came and listened. he thought to hide behind a tree, and i could hear the man weep for his mother, for his wife, for his daughter. please, he begged, as i slowed my pace and crept up behind him. i have a daughter back home. think of her and have mercy on me. but i could not imagine such a thing at this point. what had begun must be finished. i lunged forward, but mistook the spot, and instead my arms wrapped themselves around the tree behind which he hid. i could hear the soldier fall forward to the ground with a cry. he scuttled back in the dirt and held his arms up in defense. but the tree, how can i put it, the tree was warm to the touch. and my arms embraced around its trunk as they had once embraced my brother, my son. my fingers wrapped themselves into the wood which pulsed with a life of its own. there my fingers relented a bit and i placed my cold face against the trees tepid hide. and there, i wept, i wailed, i yauped and fell away. i forgot my place and where i was and what i was doing there. the tree stilled the rage, and i merged with its ancient stillness.

when the mullahs showed, they found the solider sleeping on the ground and my body wrapped around the tree. it took four men to pry me loose. they carried me on their shoulders through the streets of my village. the shroud trailed behind us in the dirt. the tribal leaders would see that the soldier was returned to his base. they would submit to him in writing the events as they happened. the soldier would present it to his commanding officer, who would dismiss him outright and order him to hard duty. for what could possess a corpse to move at night? americans, they see nothing. they are as blind as the dead.