Friday,9th august 1936
From the perspective of Orin as a child
And I saw a beast rising out of the sea having ten horns and seven heads; and on its horns were ten diadems, and on its heads were blasphemous names…
And the dragon gave it his power and his throne and great authority…
They worshipped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast, And the worshipped the beast,saying,
'Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?'
REVELATIONS 13:1-4 NRSV
10:43
Seven. I was seven years old when the war started. It was the last thing-the last remaining memory I have. Memories, interesting things. Forgetting them scares me, it feels like they never happened. And in truth, it makes me wonder what those memories really were. Good or bad. I would accept it for what it was.
My head hung low, droplets falling from my chin, rolling down from my hair. I shook my head, rapidly; shaking off the droplets. Slowly, I turn my head. My eyes drifted along with it. There was a boy walking towards us.
My head reeled backwards. The air itself tasted of melancholy. It was etched within the very sky itself. The cries, the sounds, the voices.
As people, we find it difficult to imagine nothing.
I have seen it.
The face of hopelessness, plastered and sewn into the souls of men and women alike. Our fires burn dimly. And the stars. They burn bright. Shining above us, watching us. Detached from our own struggles.
A cacophony of droplets fell, slipping through the gaps of my threadbare clothes.
I felt nothing in my feet. Only numbness.
My mother and I.
Through plains that once held grass and grain—memories of happiness—now of blood and stains.
Now, of glass and death.
Her fingers squeezed mine.
I did not squeeze back.
I knew she was pretending not to be afraid.
That made one of us.
She tugged my arm, urging me forward, trying to break my stillness.
"Don't turn back."
Though she didn't say it, it felt as if that were what she meant.
From the trees crows rose like smoke—black feathers clattering loose like shrapnel.
They blotted out the sun in shifting patterns—a Rorschach of war.
She sighed as I stood idle. Crouching into a sitting position.
Her lips pursed, "Don't worry. It will be alright,"
It will all be alright. She said.
It will all be alright. He said.
It will all be alright. They said.
It will all be alright. I said.
In our lives, we learn to fly. Like Icarus, our wings burn. And sooner or later—we fall.
Click. Bang.
Click. Bang.
Click. Bang.
I knew him, but he was unrecognisable. His face was obscured. I don't remember it. The boy. The devil. A monster.
He himself had come to Earth, holding a metallic rifle, its arm resting on his shoulder. Holstered to his hands, pointed at her body.
He had corkscrew horns coiling around his skull, reaching from crown to toe.
His teeth were conically honed, stretching below his chin.
His fingers toyed with the trigger.
She collapsed into the asphodels. Her blood — pure, like red phosphorus.
I caught her.
I held her.
I was a child again—but older than time.
Her eyes trembled—heavy, faltering. She bit her lip; blood slipped through her teeth. The rain carried the blood down her cheek.
I saw tears.
Was it the pain of the bullet?
Her face wasn't one of pain. It wasn't distress. Not even desperation. It was melancholic but peaceful. It was a face of worry.
She clutched my arm gripping it tightly. The fireflies slowly fading from her eyes. Her tears glimmering on her pupils. Her lips pursed to form words, but they could never reach her lips. It was all in her eyes. Sadness. In her pupils, I didn't see her pain, rather through a black screen. I saw a reflection of myself.
She wasn't in pain. She was worried for me.
It was a mother's love.
And that emptiness called to me again—
That infinite plain of nothingness.
It drove deeper than any wound.
Hurt more than pain itself.
Then I turned.
He was there.
When I asked It how it felt, he muttered,
"Pride."
He shot her body again. Her body shot up from the ground then fell back. I flinched.
The boy glanced at me.
He threw the rifle towards me.
His fingers crisscrossed into his palms.
His eyes glimmered.
He had blonde hair.
Cerulean eyes.
The crows cawed twice.
He didn't pursue me or try to follow—
Rather, he just watched, as I sat within my silence.
In moments like this, I always thought I'd be the first to cry.
I scrunched my face, trying to force tears.
None.
"Is this okay?" I thought.
"Childish."
I looked onward.
Plains of grass and trees.
A village ahead.
A church bell ringing, monotonous.
The occasional bird chirping, sporadic.
A memory what once was.
Even now, I wonder if heaven exists for good people. Or if death is heaven itself.
I looked up.
It began to snow.
And then—there it was.
The sky tore open.
Eight stars streaked across the heavens.