"When will this end, Mother?"

The ragged little boy, gazes wistfully at the overcast, winter sky-trembling with cold as he wears a thin, torn shirt- through the caged bars of the only window in the dark, scary, chilling cement room; at the freedom outside, at the happiness which has already left him, at HIS nation, HIS country that doesn't count him as its own, counts him as an outsider, as an illegal immigrant, which he isn't, his hands and legs fastened with tight chains, his body excruciating with unbearable pain. He is wearing the same dirty shirt he was wearing when he first arrived here, his body unwashed, smelling of dirty sweat, his hear unbrushed, shabby. His mouth tastes of the metallic taste one gets afore vomiting. He feels the nausea- feeling. He understands not why he is here. Nor does he know whose fault it is that he is here. He is famished. He needs food. His throat is parched. He needs water. He is purple all over because of the beatings of the horrible people who brought him here. He still doesn't understand why he is here, but her has only one question in his mind, When will this end?

So he says out aloud-albeit aloud seems such whisper because he hasn't left with energy any more-in the chilling darkness, addressing his mother, once more, yet again, "When will this end, Mother?"

And as he expects, and as has happened millions of time before, his mother's  reaction remains the same, so does her answer. His mother, the poor, helpless woman lifts the cups of her heavy eyelids with such difficulty, such pain and glances feebly at her son. "Soon. Soon." she mutters under her breath. Now she has started weeping bitterly again, as she had done over the time she and her son came here. Tears are rolling down her bruised face, straining it's way down her bony cheeks, which were once rosy and fat, as her little boy wipes them off. "Mother don't. Please don't cry." he begs his mother, furious at himself for making his mother cry, furious at himself for his dear mother has tears in her eyes just because of him, just because of his stupid question.

It's all my fault, he thinks. All my fault.

But no one is there to tell him it isn't.

It isn't.

Slap! Bang! The beatings have started once again.

Chand Shaikh, 11 years.