Week 3 entry for October: Brigit’s Flame
Note: The town neighboring ours is at war right now, and I just thought about this. Many civilians have died already, and I wish it would all just stop.
I’ve always looked at war once as a thing that only happened in the movies, and in the past. It never really affected me in any way, because I was safe and sound, with a nice roof over my head and meals that always left me satisfied. I was clothed, sheltered and educated—protected from anything violent, anything unpleasant that could alter my views and my feelings.
I changed my mind, papa.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I am more mature and am taking things more seriously than before—I don’t have childish fantasies any longer of a world where everything is the color of the rainbow, the song of the children, the joy of being. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because our country is affected and I’ve seen things now, things that I would never have dreamed of witnessing in my entire life—guns blazing, men shouting, people bleeding.
I don’t know, papa.
Sometimes I get scared. Sometimes I dream about it, but I know they’re not really dreams—they’re more like nightmares based on the harsh reality that is in front of my eyes, and that I could never wash away, even if I keep my eyes open and my mind alert. I see the cries, and the pleading for help, and the screams of agony, and oh God, oh God...I see the dead bodies with their lifeless eyes, their unmoving poses. And all I could do is stare back and cry, because it hurts so much, it hurts too much that I desperately wish I could run away or be dead just like them—because being dead is probably better than this horror, this monstrosity.
I’m a coward, papa.
Sometimes, I see his face—with his glittering eyes and his twisted smile and that manic, manic expression that never fails to make me shiver. He is a soldier, and I fear and pity him; fear because of the blood in his hands, and pity because like me, he is just a pawn in this endless hatred that we all have against each other—whether it’s because of our race, our beliefs, our fate.
It’s all the same, anyway.
War is useless. It’s scary. It brings the worst in us.
Most of all, it besieges us with memories. It entraps us in too much sorrow that in the end, victory gained is hollow, merely a title that will never, ever bring the happiness back.
I should know. You died in my arms, after all.
Sometimes, I think back and wonder if things can be changed. But they can’t, can they, papa? Because it’s all too late. Because it’s all gone now—our lives, our loves, our sanity.
I miss you, papa. Sometimes, I wish I was dead, too. But somehow, I wish to live on and help change this bleak world more—not only for mama but because maybe, just maybe, it’s still possible.
Pray for me, papa. Pray for us. Maybe someday, freedom will no longer be just a dream.
And the memories will no longer be unbearable.