Bullets pour down like droplets of rain, the pitter-patter sounds are mimicked with the splash of bloodstains, I look to the sky and am consumed by hopeless laughter and brace myself for a possible life coming after.
A mother sobs, shielding her child, blocking his view of the carnage occurring around; even in death his innocence is preserved, his final memories shall be of his mother’s sweet words. Reassurances of her love and care for him encapsulated by the stance she takes, crouched down and arms wrapped around, smothering in a loving embrace.
‘Close your eyes and count to three and everything will be fine’, the words she manages to utter as tears stream from her eyes, ‘you and mummy will be living in a house up in the skies, higher than any plane can fly and where the sun shall always shine.’. The hail of bullets pierce their skin reducing them to shreds, hopefully his mum was right and they are not simply just dead.
Despite acceptance of my fate I stumble backwards, a natural animal instinct, in the face of impending doom man and beast are not so distinct. As fear overrides my common sense I well up with a feeling of dread, that the dreams I strive to attain will be eviscerated by bullets piercing through my head. The view I thought I held so dear of the worthlessness of life cannot uphold in tumultuous times when pushed to the choice of fight or flight.
My head begins to spin as the adrenaline kicks in, my stomach churning preparing to regurgitate the gin, in which I had indulged on a lonely night lit by candlelight and the glow of a crescent moon as the wind carried smells of food as well as the siren of the first platoon.
Then it began, the events that lead to the crisis I now face, one that has me being trailed in a high speed bullet chase, a chase that in my heart I know that I shall lose, in spite of this my body still refuses not to move; to accept the fate presented, that this is my final hour, and to abstain even in death from pleading to a higher power.
As the strength leaves my legs my body inevitably concedes, the consequence of this shall soon leave me marked as deceased, forgotten in the crowd amongst the multitude of names, another statistic whose only mark was splattered against the sand grains.
Bullets pour down like droplets of rain, the pitter-patter sounds mimicked with the splash of bloodstains, abruptly they stop falling and the sky quickly clears, and rain begins to descend as God sheds a few tears.
AAOOA
Comments