Narrative Essay On The Kite Runner

The bathroom was basic: white walls, white towels and a white vanity. Then there was me, the darkening presence in the room. This is how I pictured things to be like once we are in America, I would stand out like a stranger in a crowd of familiar faces. That’s if I ever made it to America. I look in the mirror and my eyes appear as if they were pepper sprayed, reddened from the endless stream of tears that trickled down my plump face. Amir looked into my eyes and promised me there would be no orphanage, but that was not quite true, not at all. Amir lied straight to my face. I have come to realise that trust is more easily broken than made. I pick up the metallic razor blade and brush it against my stout finger. Blood slithers down and splashes next to the Polaroid of my father and I. I grasp the only item I have that reminds me of my Baba, my beloved Baba. I missed every detail of that photo; Hassan, the dull

It was the day of the Annual Kite Flying tournament, the largest number of competitors in its history.

“Amir and I made the perfect team. We had come close to winning in previous years, but this year was different,” he explained excitedly, “we were more experienced, or so we thought.”

I tuned out for a little while, nodding at the appropriate times, until he reached the interesting part.

“It was just this one blue kite and Amir agha who remained. Suddenly Amir positioned the blue kite in order to deliver the finishing blow, the old lift-and-dive. This was by far my favourite manoeuvre of them all. And in the blink of an eye, the blue kite started falling toward the ground, like a leaf falling from a tree.”

“And what did that mean?” I asked.

“Amir won!” he exclaimed, “and I had the privilege of running the kite.”

“Did you get it?” I questioned. His face flickered a little, a sorrowful expression briefly paired his face, but then he regained his