Why did these things happen to him?

The piece below is 100% fiction, and is not intended to hurt anybody's sentiments.

Why did these things happen to him? the boy wondered, half awake.

'Wake up, Sathya!' yelled a hoarse voice from a distance. 'Its 9.30 already'. It was Annan, his elder brother. Sathya had been dreading that moment for a whole week. It was the 23rd of January, the day Annan was to be transferred along with the rest of the elite sniper team further south.Annan was his only living relation. He was his hero and his best friend as well. In fact, Annan had practically raised Sathya after their mother died while delivering Sathya.

Annan, at the age of 17, had the physique of a Greek god, and knew the region like the back of his hand. The adults in the camp called him an excellent strategist, whatever that meant. That, and his excellent skills with guns had brought him close to the leader of their camp. It was the only reason why Sathya had been able to enjoy luxuries like sleeping in until 9.30 instead of crawling in a trench with all the other 9 year-old boys, learning to handle a rifle.

He woke up irritably, and walked towards the stream, to begin his morning chores. The stream had always disgusted him. It was not a clear stream of water, but an ugly garbage dump that also acted as a breeding ground for mosquitoes. In fact, he hated everything about his surroundings. They had no electricity, no clean water, no sanitary facilities, no doctors for medical attention. Those were luxuries for them. The mentality of the adults in his camp too annoyed him. 'We must fight unto our death, dear boy. One day, the Eelam will be liberated', they would say. 'For whom?' he wondered. If things continued the way they were, both armies would be decimated completely before the Liberation, leaving nobody to live in the Eelam. That is, if the malarial mosquitoes and unhygienic conditions didn't kill them first.

Having brushed his teeth and defecated, he returned to his tent, to find Annan completing his packing. He had so many questions in his mind. Would Annan return? If so, when would he return? Who would take care of him when Annan was not around?. Annan too, seemed to be anxious, as was obvious from his body language. 'Sathya, promise me that you will behave responsibly when I'm away' said Annan in a firm yet loving voice, like a father going away on a business trip. Sathya nodded, his voice lost amongst his fears.

Annan then turned back to his bag, and rummaged for a while before producing a gun from it. It was an battered SIG-Pro semiautomatic pistol. 'This belonged to our father', said Annan 'use it to protect yourself if necessary'. Sathya stared at the little device for a whole minute, before extending his hand to touch it gingerly, even as Annan continued to tell him how to use it. Sathya wasn't paying attention. He didn't care anymore. Annan was going away. That was all that mattered. Annan then hugged him and left, and Sathya bit his tongue to ensure that Annan didn't know he was crying.

Later that evening, Sathya roamed the camp with a heavy heart, with no purpose, stopping from time to time to give his feet some rest. The clouds above hung low, and were as dark as any he had seen. He knew that it would rain soon, and that he would be safer in his tent, but stayed out in an act of defiance. He then reached the central clearing of the camp. The boys were usually trained by the veterans in the clearing. He watched from a distance as 50 skinny boys squatted on the floor, rapt in attention, as one of the teachers told them how to handle rifles. He wondered where the weapons came from. Clearly, they were smuggling it from somewhere, but if somebody wanted to help them, why didn't they just bring in their army and win the war for them? 'War is not all that simple' his brother had laughed, when Sathya had asked him.

He had heard about the protests in India. He had heard the elders discuss how Sri Lankans were not allowed to play cricket in some parts of India. 'What purpose does that serve?' wondered the irate boy. The Sri Lankans could play all the cricket they wanted as long they gave the elders the measly bit of land they demanded, and allowed them to live in peace. He also wondered, albeit secretly, whether their demand was justified. After all, they were all humans. Why couldn't they just live together? So they had different languages, and different cultures. Would it really kill them to live together? Having been born into the war, he knew nothing of what happened before it.Yet, it was his conviction, that whatever the situation was at that point of time, it was definitely not worse than the current one. 'Always aim for the forehead, it kills instantaneously and saves you ammunition.' he heard the teacher ramble on. An instant death. He wondered if that was a luxury he could ever afford. His death, he imagined, would be a painful one, in the tent reserved for the wounded in the camp, like all the others. If only he could die right away. He had nothing to live for anyway. Even Annan had left. It struck him then. It was perfect, he had a life he wanted to end, and a gun to end it.

He ran as hard as he could, oblivious of the rain and the stones beneath his feet, and burst into his tent. The gun lay there, on the makeshift table they owned. He walked up to it cautiously, picked it up and ran again. He would run deep into the woods where nobody would go, so that his body wouldn't be found. He knew that if Annan returned and learnt of his death, it would break his heart. It was better for him to think that Sathya was lost, or better still, abducted by the Sri Lankans. After 5 minutes of running, he stopped. Pointing the gun carefully at the middle of his forehead, he steadied himself, 'On the count of three, pull the trigger'.

1...2...3....

*Click*.

Of course it wasn't loaded. Annan was not a fool. The misery had to continue.

Why did these things happen to him?

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Again, I need a name for the story. Any ideas?