The stench of week-old blood and dirty bandages makes the air thick, unbreathable. A man coughs and a child cries out, awoken by the sound. Her mother, shuffling around in bed, uncovers her breast and gives it to the child, now comforted. Both fall into unrestful sleep. The man coughs again. Nothing stirs.
We are the ruins of war. I the nurse, they the unwanted war booty, the sick, injured, disheartened; men who cannot labor and women who cannot be labored upon. They took the children, lead them to a gas-room and gassed them all. Outside this make-shift tent, ash falls from the sky like rain. It is the ash of our children. Our future in ashes.
We thought they would come to free us. Our soldiers. People. The rest of civilization. Many a day have passed, I have lost count. The sick have not been counting down to freedom. They have been counting down to death. That is their freedom now. And the disheartened? Some sit on the dirt floor, limbs wet with urine, feaces and blood. Indifferent. Others go on like the world as we know it has not been attacked, incinerated and forgotten. They speak of their businesses (that have been burnt), their families (that have been burnt) and memories from yesterday (that have been burnt).
“Be thankful,” they told us, “that we are letting you go. We could keep your women and make you work as slaves, even in ill health. But our hearts are merciful.”
And they then scoffed, turned and left us with no food, water, shelter or ground. And we were thankful. In that moment, we were thankful. The old women say now we are unrepentant again. This war is punishment for our sins. The sins are ours. Mine. Yours. We are comrades in sin. Our sin is life. And their rosaries protect them from a merciful, benevolent god.
(to be continued when I have less homework)
