inkfilledmind

It was heartbreaking in its sincerity and overwhelmingly fragile: a scene so perfect it was repulsive, calculated and manipulative, yet impossible to turn away from; the momentary lull of a crafted symphony, cascading flourishes and frenzied strings giving way to silence before being returned in full force to stun the audience with loud beauty.

Those were the thoughts floating across Samuel’s disintegrating mind as he watched his daughter cross the tarmac to greet him, her hands intertwined with his son-in-law, jacket cords and hair flying and swirling in the same furious wind which muted the crack of the gun that delivered the bullet which pierced his side and sent a slow spray of crimson into the air.

He watched them from the tarmac, crossing the tarmac, he had stumbled and collapsed on the cold black surface and his face was upturned, still gazing at his daughter who had unhooked her arm and started running towards him, husband confused and slow with panic breaking across his face.

Desperation seized Samuel’s failing thoughts, tried to reroute his neurons and form meaning, provide a last handful of intellectual insights as if the criminal surgeon will cut open his skull and peel back the layers of his brain to explore reversed experiences and declare, yes! this man was not a complete dullard, see the philosophical implications within his final moments!

Instead his mind delighted in the caricature of human movement exhibited by the people around him, they were jumping and skipping like cheap high school stop-motion animation, tears formed and fell to the ground and men and women crowded in suspended, paralysing alarm.

His eyes shut briefly and when they opened again he was in a world of pain, so complete that it pushed aside the momentary confusion of lying on blood-sticky leaf-covered dirt surrounded by dense vegetation and foreign figures with impassive faces staring at him, and it eclipsed the realisation that he was not on the home runway, hadn’t been for weeks and never would be again, his daughter and son-in-law would see his name printed in the paper or flashed on the evening news and wonder how they would cope and what was the point of the war and if they would get help with the funeral and if fuel prices would go up now because money only went so far and there are so many things to buy.

We leave the hostel together, hands tight and legs swinging with abandon, skin brushed by hot wind swirling down skyscraper corridors.

“Who do you think will die first?” I mock with a smile.

Living with fear, deep, dehabilitating fear, for so many years… it made it breathing, palpable. It attached to our lives like an obsequious friend who greeted us without fail the moment we stepped outside. He stared into our eyes with tender concern and took our hands, hands which shook with suppressed, helpless loathing.

She laughs, slaps my arm lightly. “We’re dead without each other, right? We’re past that now.”

“You’re right. Do you remember…” I hesitated.

“Remember what?”

“Two weeks ago, we ordered delivery from that Thai place, over the phone–”

We had taken savage pleasure in herding him up flights of stairs; smooth black tape covering his mouth and arms pulled hard behind his back. Through the top hatch into bright sunlight on the rooftop, a hasty shove over the edge to the streets below.

“–Thai Time–”

“–Thai Time, but when the doorbell rang, and we went up the hall, we were too scared to open it–”

“–we sat down, huddled on the cold tiles and waited for the ringing, waited for the ringing to stop and the shadow outside to leave, and we went to bed hungry–”

It had taken months of perseverence. It was exhilarating to confront him. It was dizzying, like dangling our feet over the ledge and watching him curve in final grace, plummet down and down.

“Let’s eat there tonight.”