He wished he was taken by the oblivion.
But on the vividly strong light from the decaying walls scattering, battling the cold humid air, it is inevitable.
The smell of the land, sweat, gunpowder and blood is nothing against the rotten being in every corner of the old warehouse the enemy had sealed and bolted.
The place where he and the others were left to die.
He was frightened to move, not even to open his eyes and see what was left for his sight.
Or rather, he knew what he was about to encounter once he opened up for the world.
He wished for death.
His mother was a fine old woman. When she heard the gunshots she never even flinched. He could still perceive that site of his mother sitting by the window watching the sky darken as the enemies fill the air. Unlike the ravaging people of the village she never dared to run, not because of her frail trembling legs but because she was not afraid for help. He was sure that the muted words she mimicked was “Leave”.
His younger brother was outside the house. His loud cry of agony was easily submerged by the much louder roar of the enemies’ weapons.
He despised that fact, that sad truth that even on their death they were deprived of the right to cry for help, cry to be saved, cry for God. That he watched everything crashing and turning into dust, but never heard a single sound of mortification.
And yet, that vociferous silence will never be forgotten by those who never wished to remember.
He was astounded by the severed fate but at the time he was still affirmative he can get through everything. In his right hand he was holding the warm hand of hope, his great salvation.
She is everything.
Without his will his feet stepped swiftly to rescind the bullets at the sight of his happiness weeping.
The rest of his family lies on the ground but he smiled to what was left as though everything is well and made it certain that there is a miracle.
He pretended to be as fearless as his mother to contempt the terror on her face.
He’s encouraged by the memory of her smile, and to let go of the faith that it will return is a blasphemy.
He’s breathing, feeling and suffering so that he could still devour the words her lips always declare and the future that promises more of those words.
She love him, and he love her, and inside that circle is more, greater love that coincides, that is one.
Too far and unfathomable compared to their passion to each other.
He is alive because he can never let her die. The living and what is living inside.
Tears welled and try to wash away the dirt and blood from his face. But he will never open his eyes. He was still holding his hope on his right hand, but it was cold.