The Boy, The Grey and The Red

A Casualty of War

The iron smell of blood clouded my nostrils making it almost impossible for me to smell anything else, except that is, the strong scent of smoke. Ash. Is this what death smells like? Is this what death is? Takes everything in one blow, in a split second which unfolds the fabric of life. Now I can see why people relate death to a man with a black hood and a scythe. Isn't it so much better to put the blame in a single individual, to hide from it? The bright light of the ambulance almost obliterated my vision, which made the ghost of a smile pass my lips. How ironic that the light which should help me see turned me blind, blind to the safety provided by the vehicle while those moments at home seemed as clear as a cloudless blue sky. It became hard now to think of home, a place where I had had so many happy memories so many reminisces of people who now live only in my head, and to relate all of that to the place where time stopped. To the place where, I now realized, my childhood ended.

It had all happened so quickly yet time had also seemed to slow down, where seconds turned to excruciating minutes and minutes into  deadly hours. We were sitting on the dinner table and I was arguing with Shazi because she had eaten all the grapes I had been saving for dessert. Father was watching the telly and mother was trying to calm us down but I stood up to stomp off to my room when the ceiling fell. I felt an invisible hand throw me to the ground and time slowed. A ringing noise filled my ears as I tried to regain my bearings. I remember asking myself what was going on and answering the question just as I finished the thought. A bomb. Living in the third floor of our seven storey building had saved us, I thought. How lucky we are.

 We had been warned to move out for some time now, and the neighbourhood had drastically decreased its population. We just hadn't believed anything would happen. We just couldn't handle the thought that people were capable of destroying residences, killing innocents as my father put it, for no reason. The mass casualties, it happened to others, not us. And yet there I was, covered in dust and staring at what seemed like the end. As I forced myself to sit up and look, actually look at what once was our living room, I could barely make out a hand, then an arm and finally her face. Mother. Her once carefree complexion was painted grey, yet clear wet lines created patterns I had never seen before on her as they carried themselves from the corner of her eyes to the curves of her jaw. She was crying. My mother who never shed a tear, not for any book or movie or compelling article on the news, was crying. I tried standing up but to no avail, and simply crawled to her.

"Come here, son. Come to mommy." Tears came down her face "It's going to be alright, okay? Are you hurt?" I shook my head "Baby... Come here..." She sniffled as I came to her side and held her hand. She took a deep breath. "Now, I need you to do something for me, okay? I need you to be strong. Have you seen anyone else? Daddy? Shazi?" I shook my head, and a fresh new set of tears rolled down her face. "I need you to look for them, okay?" I squeezed her hand and made an unintelligible sound, I didn't want to leave her side anymore. "No, no, no... Shhh, it's going to be okay. I'm going to be right here, it's all going to be fine. I'll... I'm going to be talking to you okay? I'm going to sing while you look for them..." She took a deep breath. "I'm going to sing Yalla tnam Rima, okay?" I nodded and she let go of my hand.

Slowly, carefully, I tried to stand up this time and had more success. My mother's voice filled the deathly silence, my favorite lullaby lacing itself around me and giving me strength I forgot I possessed as I walked around the invasive pile of cement that had changed my life forever. When I got to where I thought daddy had been, I started pulling away rocks. I found his shirt and adjusted my digging. And there he was. Closed eyes and a black smear across his face he seemed to be sleeping and I told mother as much. She asked me to put my finger under his nose and see if I feel something. A metal beam separated us and I stretched my short arms to his face. I caressed him, tried to wake him before lowering my finger to the top of his upper lip.

"Honey, do you feel anything? Did you get to him? How is he, baby?" I stroked my father one last time before I returned to my mother and shook my head. She let out a breath, tears rolling down her face as she gripped my hand. She just breathed for a few seconds that had felt like an eternity when she finally told me to go looking for my sister. Her voice was raspy by now and dark liquid started oozing from her set of rocks. Still, she sung.

                                                                      Her lullaby, Yalla tnam Rima