The Fatherland

Silence. Pure silence plagued not only him, but the entire city. Ah, the beautiful city. It was the most beautiful of them all; that was before the disaster. The once most beautiful city, full of blossoms and leaves, cheers and the laughter of children. He remembered: an elderly gentleman sat on this corner with his guitar. Day in, day out, the man played his instrument, and he had certainly given the old man more money than he would have liked. He had given him so much, too much. Just as he had done all his life; he never took, he only gave. He gave his money to the beggar; he gave his knowledge to his siblings. He gave his bread to his comrades and gave his enemies the coup de grâce. He gave his life to his fatherland. His fatherland, oh what a beautiful country. Once great and magnificent, the centre of activity for an entire continent. The centre of society, the economy, politics. The centre of his life. Times were good, very good indeed. But that was long ago. Before it all began and ended again. Everything ends at some point, nothing lasts forever. Not even his homeland.

Green fields, blue sky. Colourful flowers bloomed in meadows and in the city's flower boxes. Birds flew around, chirping cheerfully. No bombers or fighter jets in sight, not even a Leopard tank or off-road vehicle with a few soldiers. No rubble or bombs, not even screams of fear or desperate residents. The city stood as it had been built, the dream of architectural art. An almost unnatural phenomenon, in his opinion.

Of course, he remembered. How he travelled across the country laughing, gliding through the scent of blooming flowers, yes, almost floating. He remembered the apple tree he planted with his father when he was a child. His father, how he misses him. Oh, and his mother, his siblings. They were taken from him, taken from his life and from this city. The city, once a summer dream, now a nightmare. Destroyed houses, grieving people. The birds no longer chirped, but pecked at their food from the victims left behind by the disaster. The magpies and ravens had grown fat on the slowly rotting carcasses. They had grown larger, nasty creatures. Colourful flowers had long since ceased to bloom, the only colour in the pile of misery was the red blood that stained the stones.

Blood, yes.

Once the elixir of life, now the juice of torment. The blood stained everything, not just the walls and streets of the city. His hands, his thoughts. His conscience, oh, his poor conscience. Tormented by his atrocities, by the desperate and pleading cries. Tormented by the gasping and wheezing of his slain and slaughtered enemies. It tormented him, the guilt. For it sat deep.

He blinked, looked down. Eyes stared back at him. He looked almost miserable, his emaciated face staring back at him in the reflection of the puddle. His brown hair no longer shone, his eyes paler than the grey cloud cover that adorned the sky. A storm was raging; not in the sky. Inside him. A storm of grief, despair and fear. Great fear. Not just of reality, no. Fear of himself. Of what he was capable of. He saw it with his own eyes, the contempt in the looks of the people as they watched him on the street. The anger, a passer-by even spat at his feet.

What humiliation. He gave everything, all his possessions. He gave his family, his passion. His life. He gave everything that was dear and valuable to him. But he never took. He never asked for anything in return for what he did. No. Because he knew: war did not give. It only took. 65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY3ddCV4Nub

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