Narrative Essay On The Kite Runner

The bathroom was basic: white walls, white towels and a white vanity. Then there was me, the darkening presence in the room. This is how I pictured things to be like once we are in America, I would stand out like a stranger in a crowd of familiar faces. That’s if I ever made it to America. I look in the mirror and my eyes appear as if they were pepper sprayed, reddened from the endless stream of tears that trickled down my plump face. Amir looked into my eyes and promised me there would be no orphanage, but that was not quite true, not at all. Amir lied straight to my face. I have come to realise that trust is more easily broken than made. I pick up the metallic razor blade and brush it against my stout finger. Blood slithers down and splashes next to the Polaroid of my father and I. I grasp the only item I have that reminds me of my Baba, my beloved Baba. I missed every detail of that photo; Hassan, the dull

aqua pavers, the Wall of Ailing Corn and the old me.
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“Sohrab, come in for lunch!” mother called.
“I’ll be there in a minute!” I shouted back. After one more shot, of course. I took one last look at the target, a mouldy red pomegranate atop of a large eroded rock, and squinted my already narrow eyes. I drew back the elastic band, breathed in and breathed out, then released. Target hit! The rotten fruit splattered all over the dry ground as the rock hurtled into it. The sheer brutality of my father’s weathered slingshot and my unbelievable accuracy still surprised me after each shot. It was a beautiful day. The glistening sun was biting ferociously through limitless blue sky that surrounded Kabul. The warm breeze gently caressed my smooth skin. The odd rustle of a bush filled the deafening silence that had become a part of this baron city. As I moved closer to home I could smell lamb kabob and naan. It was going to be a good lunch. Nothing could beat mother’s kabob, especially on a day as favourable as today. I had the urge to devour my portion immediately, but I knew prayer came first.
The freshly made kabob sat on my plate, its steam rising toward the ceiling. Its spicy aroma dancing through my nostrils as I waited, eager to indulge this traditional dish. A light sweat had built as the heat from the kabob caressed my face. You could hear the lamb sizzling, with tiny bits of oil spitting off like a miniature fireworks show. Finally, I was given permission to start. The taste was like nothing from this planet. The mixture of lamb, fresh vegetables and spices twirled on my taste buds. I was a predator, and this was my prey.
During lunch, Baba began telling me another of his experiences with Amir, back when kites owned the sky.

It was the day of the Annual Kite Flying tournament, the largest number of competitors in its history.

“Amir and I made the perfect team. We had come close to winning in previous years, but this year was different,” he explained excitedly, “we were more experienced, or so we thought.”

I tuned out for a little while, nodding at the appropriate times, until he reached the interesting part.

“It was just this one blue kite and Amir agha who remained. Suddenly Amir positioned the blue kite in order to deliver the finishing blow, the old lift-and-dive. This was by far my favourite manoeuvre of them all. And in the blink of an eye, the blue kite started falling toward the ground, like a leaf falling from a tree.”

“And what did that mean?” I asked.

“Amir won!” he exclaimed, “and I had the privilege of running the kite.”

“Did you get it?” I questioned. His face flickered a little, a sorrowful expression briefly paired his face, but then he regained his

joviality.
“For him, a thousand times over…” he responded, but something was clearly bothering him. I had never seen this side of him, this look of despair.
Suddenly, there was knocking and shouting at the door. The people were using the most disgusting language I had ever heard, but that was the least of my worries. Hassan answered the door but I could not interpret what was being said, what was the Taliban? The conversation was getting incredibly heated. Abruptly, one of the men grabbed Baba and forced him outside. Mother ran behind him, letting out piercing squeals. I was frozen. I struggled to think. All of a sudden I heard a gunshot. Mother than ran I stumbled to the front door to see father lying, emotionless, in a pool of blood on the ground, but neither of my parents were there. I went back inside and began wailing, just staring at the Wall of Ailing Corn.
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The room was now filling with steam as water poured into the bath tub. The mirror became fogged, masking my reddened features. I am not going to that orphanage. I will live alone on one of the packed, filthy streets if it means I do not go back to one of those hell holes. I why had mother not been in this photo, I can barely picture her face anymore. Did she have wrinkles in her forehead? What colour were her eyes? How thick were her eyebrows? Great drops began falling from my eyes as the heavy rainclouds in my mind let loose its turbulent nature. I wish mother and father could come back. I wish we could be together once more. The razor seized my attention once again which triggered something, my thoughts became clear. Maybe there is a way we could be together again. I picked up the razor and slid into the bathtub. I knew what had to be done, I knew how to bring us together.