A Story of Two
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Own Creative Writing. A Story of Two I am a rather elderly man. Of the two I was the most reasonable one. We were always very different; we have been ever since we were born. Our characters were the only thing by which people could tell us apart. I was the more quiet and helpful one; I did a lot of community service, and was always there for other people. He was always finding a way to get what he wanted, no matter what. Maybe that is what finally really did it. We grew up in a little town in Oregon. Our family had never been close, and our parents let us free at a very young age. The only similar characteristic we ever had was growing up before the other boys in our class. I never really cared for my future, not that I didn't want to succeed in life, but success had a very different meaning to me.
There was just one thing, that place at that time was my home. I had felt more at home in there the middle of nowhere then I had ever felt back in Oregon. During my time in South-America the situation in Afghanistan grew worse and worse. My friends and I decided our help was more needed there at the moment than anywhere else, and so we moved. Maybe it was a wrong decision to go there, but on the other hand, a confrontation would have been inevitable. We did a lot of good work there, provided food, clean water and shelters. It was very tough, in America we had always been accepted with open arms, but here it was a different world: people did not always accept our help; maybe it was because we were Americans, and they just didn't trust us. When he began the war something inside of me snapped.
We poisoned water reserves, we stole cars and weapons, destroyed camps and set up revolts under the local people. Eventually it stopped. He had done enough damage and went on to the next country; Iraq. I went back again and confronted him. We had a great fight, the worse ever. This time he had no bodyguards to defend him. He always used to be the more athletic one, but all those years in the field had made me hard and strong. The fight took a dramatic twist when one of his bodyguards came in. He saw us fighting on the floor and dreaded for the presidents life. Without thinking he shot me in my back. He did not kill me, but my life was in danger. As I lay there on the floor, the life flowing out of me, I was positive it was my last hour. And so, moments before I had lost consciousness I said jus one thing: Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity! Eveline van Velthuijsen, V6
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