I will not hide from you the truth. This world is as cold as its maker. There is death in the air. There is bitterness and rage in the eyes of those who walk this form of hell. We are governed by evil and pain is the only feeling in use. I am in the depths of death and defeat and to me both are familiar. What I hold dearest has been swiped from me by men with guns and I have been left to live with a wound in my heart. My suffering is the only thing that reassures me that I am still alive but in this world we are all dead. The most deceased are those of faith for they know not yet how forgotten we are, how abandoned we are, how doomed we will be and that we will all perish soon with nowhere to go. In my sorrow and despair, struggle and defeat I do not cry out to a dead sky. I sit down and lick at my wounds knowing that it is only a matter of time before I disappear, forever.
In everything I see nothing, for as the bombs hit and hell and earth collide all is a blur. It has been two weeks of the bombs. The sound is deafening and each day is a reminder that they are getting closer. You cannot stay still. People are on the go, running from their homes and trying to escape the clutches of death. I run by night, when it is cold and my feet feel numb. I run. I run. Like a man trying to run for the gradually closing gates of Heaven. The forests were once silent and tranquil but now the animals are gone and there is only the sound of explosions. The aroma of carcasses secretes the air and as I run I close my nose. This is now. This is the moment no man can quite easily describe but this moment is recurring for I am perpetually at the door of death these days. Who am I? I forget. I do. For before the conflict I was human but now I bare no name, no description for to be human you must feel. I do not.
I feed on what the soil gives me. The little debris of harvests for there are no animals. Mother earth grants me food once in a while along the path. The water impure seasoned with a hint of blood from a dead body somewhere where in the stagnant water. To nourish the body in such a time is out of the question. Some are hungry and so they begin to feast on themselves, people eating people. No one can be trusted for they think only of their stomachs. How can this war turn us to monsters? I shall never result in eating my own, I would rather see myself die then to eat mankind.
‘BOOM BOOM. BOOM BOOM!” the rapture ceases not. But as every bomb blasts I hear heartbeats stop and men take their final breaths. They are closer, these men of evil. They are closer and come only to kill and destroy. Why must citizens of a nation have to die because of the works of their governments? My family wronged no one, I wronged no one, and the malnourished children I have watched die wronged no one. But yet we are first to perish. We are first to be shot, raped, hanged, hacked to death, we are first to die. I am under a sycamore tree in the hills; this will do for a place to lay my head until night-time. Perhaps I shall lay here until they find me. Why can’t I give them the pleasure of killing me? Can’t I just hand them the honor of ending my pitiful existence now?
Over the course of 6 months we have been at war. I have homed mountain caves ,trees. I have drank from streams and eaten what the ground offers. But before this all, before this havoc I had been a man of wealth. My home was a two-storey mansion with a swimming pool. I had my family, a good job, food was in its plentiful, and all was well. But then again slowly it all ended and here I am seated under a tree starving and cold. I have not talked to someone in a month and I have not heard music for a month. The only music is the weapons. The only conversations I hear are those of the exchange of fire.
The world is a mystery and I know nothing of what is going on. I haven’t had access to the slightest of news. The towns are dead and it is asking to be killed that would lead one to the towns. Instead the hills and mountains are the only places one can try and seek refuge. But since when do I have to seek refuge in my own country and be a prisoner in my own nation? these invaders come with their loaded guns and kill, they transform our homes to rock. They turn us to corpse. I have no one to talk to so I am haunted by my thoughts, my memories of the past are erased and it is as if this new me’s life began the day I watched my family being killed. That is the only thing in my mind. The expression on Rakaia’s face as the bullet when through her heart lurks in my mind and the image of my dead children replays itself in my mind. Over and over and over again and like a baby I weep. I cannot stop the tears from flowing. Down they go stubborn tears. Slowly I am no longer a man. All I know has been swiped from me; all I hold dearest has been plucked from my hands. I was a man. That man died the day my family did.
The enemy are insatiable or our government is not giving up. I can only use my assumption for I know not what is going on politically but I know exactly what is going on on the war front. I am unsure of where exactly I am but I know I am still in the mountains of Galada. I reach into my pouch and look at my calendar. It is the only thing I have to remind me of how long this has been going on. Today marks 7 months. Perhaps I can go down and look for a town, maybe there I can find some supplies hopefully the enemy isn’t close by.
I see a group of people, skinny, unclean, old and young. Bitter people; sufferers as I am. We cannot talk, we cannot exchange words, it is the only way we can be sure we are both safe. So I walk by them, still looking for a town. I am startled by the footsteps behind me. someone has returned for my flesh. Fight I must, fight I may. I take out my knife I crafted from stone and face my opponent. I look upon a woman, filthy and pathetic. She once was beautiful I presume, in another world before this war.
“Sorry to startle you. I am Kadira. I wish not to disturb you. Please.”
“What do you want?” I hold my knife up still firmly.
“To come with you. I did not want to go with them. I am a reporter and have wanted to go to a town for a while but they won’t let me. I wish to come with you.”
“How do you know where I am going?”
“Kivhan is 6 miles this direction. I assumed that’s where you are going. You do know the way don’t you.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“I can show you where it is, please. I will not lay low and watch my people get slaughtered. I want to help. I want to try and contact my correspondents. I must try and stop this crisis.”
“This crisis cannot be stopped by me nor you. Let us just our separate ways in peace.” I say and walk on sure she will not follow. If she knows what is best for her she will not follow.
“I am not accustomed to begging.”
“Well beg or not, I said no. it’s too dangerous.”
“You don’t know me yet you fear for my safety. What of your own?”
“You reporters are persistent bastards. Let it be, your group is looking for you.”
“I am not part of a group; I am part of a nation. And if persistence is the antidote to save this land them I am willing to die.”
“Duck!” then we both hid in the bushes. It was a military tank. This was so close to the enemy. Blood of anger flowed within me but what could be done on my part? I could not run in front of the vehicle acclaiming freedom for my nation. That was not something within my thought but I had to hold onto the skirt of this woman to stop her from getting herself killed. I covered her mouth and felt warmth from her body that I had not felt for so long. It was supernatural almost. When the tank was well away we stood up from the bushes.
“if you insist we must move before more of them pass by.”
“But that’s the path.”
“you mean the path we just so a tank pass? Then we’ll have to go the long way. If you want to run back to your pack now would be a good time.”
“Rubbish.”
We headed for the forest paths. Kivhan was a town in the southern region. It used to consist of tobacco farmers. Investors built buildings for the farmers to sell their produce. Soon enough it was a growing town. It would definitely have a few supplies. The enemies are near and our walk would have to be one of silence but I’ve never known a single reporter who submitted to silence. The joy in peace and quiet has never seemed to please them. Reporting and understanding war are two very different things. But what is there to understand after all? Does death make any sense? The valley of death is all around us and I fear it enclosing, soon I shall be nothing but a nameless corpse.
Kadira is intriguing and this is what I have gathered from the few minutes in her presence. She wants to fight. she is a strong woman. And maybe she and I will see many days ahead that is if there are days again........
