The Kite Runner

“What would you do if I hit you with this”, I said, tossing the fruit up and down.
      Hassan's smile wilted. He looked older than I'd remembered. No, not older, old. Was that possible? Lines had etched into his tanned face and creases framed his eyes, his mouth. I might as well have taken a knife and carved those lines myself. 

     

 "What would you do?" I repeated.
The color fell from his face. Next to him, the stapled pages of the story I’d promised to read him fluttered in the breeze. I hurled the pomegranate at him. It struck him in the chest, exploded in a spray of red pulp. Hassan's cry was pregnant with surprise and pain.

"Hit me back!" I snapped. Hassan looked from the stain on his chest to me.
      "Get up! Hit me!" I said.
Hassan did get up, but he just stood there, looking dazed like a man dragged into the ocean by a riptide when, just a moment ago, he was enjoying a nice stroll on the beach. 


I hit him with another pomegranate, in the shoulder this time. The juice splattered his face.
  "Hit me back!" I spat. "Hit me back, goddamn you!"

    I don't know how many times I hit him. All I know is that, when I finally stopped, exhausted and panting, Hassan was smeared in red like he'd been shot by a firing squad. I fell to my knees, tired, spent, frustrated.

 Then Hassan did pick up a pomegranate. He walked toward me. He opened it and crushed it against his own forehead. "There, " he croaked, red dripping down his face like blood. "Are you satisfied? Do you feel better?" He turned around and started down the hill.