The living war-marks

Broken mugs

Jame's POV

I was only a kid during the second world war, but I remember it clear as day.

The alarms, the bombs falling from the sky.

People screaming and dying out in the streets.

Chaos.

That is my first memory.

After a few hours, it stopped again.

The images.

I wiped away the tears, and stood up in the messy hallway.

A brown jacket was laying on the floor, and I picked it up.

The cause of my messyness was unknown. Maybe I was just born a messy person?

Even my hair was messy. My mother used to say it had a life of it's own.

That may not be that far from the truth.

I walked into the kitchen, and turned on the waterboiler.

My kitchen was the only thing not messy about me.

It was always completely free of any mess at all.

Not a single breadcrumb was laying on the counter.

I opened the cabinet, and took out a box with tea.

I had always loved tea.

The aroma, the scent.

And most off all, the lovely taste.

I used to cook for my mom when I was younger.

I remember her smiling everytime I brought her my newest masterpiece.

My memories with my mom is the only happy memories I own.

I put a teabag into a brown cup on the counter, and poored hot water into it.

My mom was a lively human being, and she was loved by everyone.

My father loved her, I loved her, my sister loved her.

And we all adored her for her ability to always ignore evil.

If someone called her a bad name, or was being rude, she always ignored it like it was nothing.

Then, it happened.

The war, and the bombs falling.

My mom was in the kitchen that day, crying.

She had just had an argument with my father, and he had beaten her.

I remember walking into the kitchen, and seeing my strong mother that voulnerable.

It was almost as if I was dissapointed.