histórias de Englishprose

Prose Collection

A battlefield between a question demanded and an answer denied - a game of hide and seek with fate itself. No one can guarantee your presence in the coming hours, or your arrival within seconds. No one can promise your return from a journey within minutes, or that your going and arriving at this very moment can be undone. These are decrees written before you left the narrow passage of your mother's womb - a reminder of the placenta that once nourished you, transferring immunity from her blood into yours so you could learn to defend yourself. And though your blood type may have differed from hers, separation was destined. Parting was inevitable. The harsh truth that so many fear, yet all must meet: You will die in the end. You will not remain immortal no matter how high you rise, no matter how proud, how arrogant, how untouchable you think you've become. Your hair will turn silver with thoughts. Whether you are blessed or broken, betrayed or in love, married or alone, burdened or content watching your grandchildren with the extra years life has lent you - you will meet the dust. Your breath, your words, your mistakes, your triumphs - all will end. You will be held accountable. So renew your faith. Be thankful. Learn to say thank you to those around you. Perhaps we will not meet you again - not tomorrow. ⸻ Then came the bullets. I caught only the first sound, before they rained like water. Silence swallowed everything. Hiding behind that car, eyes shut, hands over ears - nothing was enough. The space between realizing what happened and my hands reaching my ears was shorter than the loss of hearing itself. The echo drained faster than my breath. When I rose, the world was still - a white or ashen smoke carried dust through the air, then faded, taking everything with it: hearing, speech, people, buildings. Only I remained. And a few drifting fragments. ⸻