....Continued
The invaders came, with a swiftness the villagers could not foresee. The hum of the massive army's footsteps shook the earth.
The women scrambled to the hiding places within the jungle - but most were too late. The Japanese soldiers captured some - the most attractive and youngest - and killed the rest. The soldiers didn't waste any bullets or time, striking down most with bayonets while hanging over the edges of their caravans.
His wife was one of the unlucky few - from his vantage point of his rooftop he saw the soldiers grab her, pull her to the ground.
Smoke filled the streets. Blood soaked into the dirt, turning the brown soil black.
He watched from his roof, unloading his rifle into the trucks of invaders. The shots echoed out, but were swallowed by the cacophony accompanying the oncoming army. He killed three soldiers before emptying his ten-round clip.
Tears streaked down his cheeks, the cries of his love being taken away reverberated through his soul. His shaking hands threw down his rifle, and he made his way down from the roof and into the maelstrom of the street.
He could still hear her screaming, through the gunshots and terror.
The Japanese soldiers shouted curses in a tongue he did not understand. They flowed out of their vehicles, killing men, women and children with an indiscriminate hatred he could not understand.
Through billowing smoke he ran, hearing only her shouts for mercy. He was getting closer. Somewhere off the road he heard her cry, sobbing, begging for them to stop.
He was getting closer.
His neighbor - and best friend - lay in a pool of his own blood.
Turning away, tears and smoke stinging his eyes, he ran as fast as he legs would carry him. He ran, bullets flying by, life-long friends dying all around him.
He ran, through the smokes and the screams, through the bloody mud and the hailing bullets.
A shard of shrapnel tore through his leg, sending muscle and sanguinary fluid flying. He stumbled to the ground, face first.
Her screams echoed, calling for him, calling for mercy.
He pulled himself up, struggling against his body's desire to just collapse.
He watched as soldiers throw torches into his home - the home he built with his own hands, the home he built for his betrothed, when they were barely more than children.
Leaning against a tree, blood flowing like sap down the bark, he limped into the jungle, and to the love of his life - and towards the end of his own.
......to be continued......
22.9.09
To end is to start, to surrender is to know.
The refrigerator rattled.
He sat next to her, hands in his lap, feeling the warmth of her shoulder against his. He could smell her perfume, dancing in the air gingerly, mixing with the scent of her hair. The faint aroma, vanilla and innumerable spices, was intoxicating.
He couldn't concentrate on the movie playing - some jejune "indie" comedy about a group of pampered, self-indulgent post-teens. All he could remember was the disdain he felt, watching those absurdly attractive kids pretend to be depressed, knowing they would return to their lives of luxury and endless love.
He stole a glance at her - she was watching the movie in utter rapture.
Down the hall, in the apartment across the way, their neighbor shouted at her baby in Spanish, uttering curses simultaneously beautiful and heart-wrenching.
The movie cut away to a slow motion montage, set to some underground indie pop song.
His roommate lit a cigarette and made a joke - something not even remotely witty or funny. She laughed, shaking him with her. His heart dropped, suddenly turned to lead. His head, filled with unease, bitterness, and spirits, felt light.
Something funny happened in the movie, apparently. Everyone in the room - his roommate, the girl he fell in love with, but could never tell, and his roommate's friend - laughed gleefully. Everyone except for him. He understood their joy, but not first-hand. He understood it as a scholar - only from afar, as if it was some foreign idea. Because for him it was.
Music started to play in the apartment next door, thumping base lines and squealing guitar.
He summoned what little courage was available to him, reached his left hand out, and gently touched her leg, feeling the warmth and softness extend through his arm and directly into ever fiber of his being.
But only for a moment.
Feeling her so close, the physical distance completely conquered, only served emphasize the truth.
He closed his eyes, trying to stay in that moment - his hand on her thigh, her letting it rest there. If it was out of pity or kindness, he didn't know - and tried not to care. Sweat formed on his brow, and tears in his eyes.
The movie played on.
He watched her watching it. She didn't look at him, never looked at him.
The movie played on.
His roommate made another joke, and she laughed, locking eyes with him. They held the gaze, her and the roommate.
The movie played on.
He took his hand off her lap - she didn't react - and folded it back into his own.
The movie played on.
Everyone laughed.
The movie played on.
The movie played on.
He sat next to her, hands in his lap, feeling the warmth of her shoulder against his. He could smell her perfume, dancing in the air gingerly, mixing with the scent of her hair. The faint aroma, vanilla and innumerable spices, was intoxicating.
He couldn't concentrate on the movie playing - some jejune "indie" comedy about a group of pampered, self-indulgent post-teens. All he could remember was the disdain he felt, watching those absurdly attractive kids pretend to be depressed, knowing they would return to their lives of luxury and endless love.
He stole a glance at her - she was watching the movie in utter rapture.
Down the hall, in the apartment across the way, their neighbor shouted at her baby in Spanish, uttering curses simultaneously beautiful and heart-wrenching.
The movie cut away to a slow motion montage, set to some underground indie pop song.
His roommate lit a cigarette and made a joke - something not even remotely witty or funny. She laughed, shaking him with her. His heart dropped, suddenly turned to lead. His head, filled with unease, bitterness, and spirits, felt light.
Something funny happened in the movie, apparently. Everyone in the room - his roommate, the girl he fell in love with, but could never tell, and his roommate's friend - laughed gleefully. Everyone except for him. He understood their joy, but not first-hand. He understood it as a scholar - only from afar, as if it was some foreign idea. Because for him it was.
Music started to play in the apartment next door, thumping base lines and squealing guitar.
He summoned what little courage was available to him, reached his left hand out, and gently touched her leg, feeling the warmth and softness extend through his arm and directly into ever fiber of his being.
But only for a moment.
Feeling her so close, the physical distance completely conquered, only served emphasize the truth.
He closed his eyes, trying to stay in that moment - his hand on her thigh, her letting it rest there. If it was out of pity or kindness, he didn't know - and tried not to care. Sweat formed on his brow, and tears in his eyes.
The movie played on.
He watched her watching it. She didn't look at him, never looked at him.
The movie played on.
His roommate made another joke, and she laughed, locking eyes with him. They held the gaze, her and the roommate.
The movie played on.
He took his hand off her lap - she didn't react - and folded it back into his own.
The movie played on.
Everyone laughed.
The movie played on.
The movie played on.
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