Are you an only child? Write about your siblings or lack thereof.

When I was growing up my father always told me I was destined to be a real man. A great man. My brother never heard the same type of praise. I am not an only child but there were many times my father would say otherwise. My older brother Omer...he was always given such a hard time when we were growing up. That is the curse of being the eldest son.

One instance I can recall occurred when I was eight years old and Omer was twelve. My father was upset with Omer again for having a reserved nature: children with that demeanor did not survive. They were supposed to become men and yet Omer constantly resisted. He dragged my brother outside to a coop out back full of chickens and ordered Omer to kill one. My father left. To this day I don't know if he expected Omer to quit or if he went to keep himself busy expecting a long wait before any progress was made. Omer could not kill the chicken under such pretenses...this I was aware of. He seemed so awkward standing there with that butcher knife handing down by his legs like a heavy weight of burden.

I killed the chicken for my brother. I snapped its neck with my bare hands without an ounce of shame. It was merely an animal. I had no sympathy for a creature that serves as a meal. What I cared for was my brother. I gave the bird to him and told him to present it to our father. There was no desire for credit on my part for I wanted nothing to prove. Instead of accepting the honor when out father reappeared Omer told the truth. That was always the nature of him I like to remember. It always frustrated me, but I believe I can begin to understand now his resistance. He was a much stronger boy than I in the sense he never became jaded for so long. Forever he is etched in my mind as the awkward-looking boy with the butcher knife dangling by his knees without a wish of ill or murder in his heart.

I think of him often these days.

I wish I could be more like him.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [Who watches the watchmen?]

The moment Jack Shephard and John Locke stepped out the door to the armory Sayid Jarrah knew this Henry Gale's life was in his hands. His heart quickened in pace despite his cool exterior. All the twitches and fidgets of anxiety had been worn out of him so only his vitals racing under his skin. Not for one minute did he believe this man, but he would question him none-the-less.

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( FLASHBACK: the heat of the Iraqi desert was sweltering. )

Pain is just nature’s way of saying “HEY! You’re alive!” –Ares

Physical pain...explaining the emotional aspects is time wasted on the intangible. One of the prices we must pay for life is the endurance of pain. It can be as brief as a paper cut or it could last a lifetime. Whatever we endure and survive we are told only makes us stronger. But we never ask for this pain: it is a trial that is sprung upon us by immeasurable force. When we take it upon ourselves to make another human being suffer...that is when the true purpose of pain becomes clouded.

I have seen many people reach their breaking points. In my heart I understood many of them had done horrible things to harm innocent people, but their faces still haunt me. They are those of familiar faces, women among them...acting out of passion. This in no way justifies what they have done, but I am no better than them. Their names are now synonymous with hot oil, reeds slipped under their fingernails, electricity coursing through their bodies and the word pain itself.

Myself...I have taken more bullets than anyone I know. That physical pain does not begin to compare to the memories of the pain on their faces. Pain that I inflicted. This is not Nature's doing, but its reaction is still present. It was a way to make a living- to stay alive. I wouldn't be here without that time in my life. Much has been taken from me. Though I have left my occupation behind the habit seems to linger. Pain- it is a firm reminder: we must fight to survive or give up.

I continue with a heavy heart.