Inspired by article

His hands were rough against his head as he ran it through his hair. The sun beat through the open window, casting a square of light against the floor. He held his hands in the light and inspected them, running his eyes over the familiar scars, white lines that ran up each appendage, and the smooth scar tissue that had replaced the tips of his fingers.

The family he was now living with wasn’t home; they had gone to the prison to visit their son. They would only have an hour of time with the boy. In his opinion it seemed more painful to visit them like that that to not see them at all. When you got there, they would greet you with a smile, but their eyes would be sunken, they would move slowly, the way a man does after his body has been abused, drained of any hop in any step. You sit down with them, but you can’t say anything, not the things you want to say; the guards stand close – sealing your lips. After each visit you leave angry and ashamed, as if it is your fault that you live under this regime, that it is your fault that you son waved a flag before the guard. Perhaps he just thought this though because he did not have a brother to visit, taking solace in the thought that if he was dead he could be subjected to no more.

A wail brought his attention from the thought that ran along the scars on his hands. He looked out the window. In front of the sun bleached buildings, drained of colour, and in most cases life, a man walked down the street, he held in his hands the body of a young boy, his vacant eyes staring through the window. A woman staggered behind them calling to the heavens, injustice running down her cheeks. The man too was weeping as he marched. The sorrowful procession walked past this home, crossing the browned patches in the dust of past violence.

People emerged from their home to witness the scene, a rage growing among them. He joined them, through the wall of heat that hit him at the door. The sun blared down, accentuating the heaviness of the moment. The dry dust blew around the crowd, nagging at their senses. Two men began to march in the direction the body had come from. Slowly the brigade grew. He went with them, walking on the enemy. They passed the barren landscape around them, the heat rising off the ground.

Through the haze the saw the officers, leaning against the beaten up pickup truck, their guns leaning against their legs. At the sight of them they became alert, three brutes with smug grins pulled across their faces. He wasn’t sure if this would become violent, but if it did he was ready. He had been fighting for years, this would just bring this day into the realm of all the others. The mob began to shout, the anger charging from their lips.

From the back of the truck the officers pulled grenades. They launched them into the crowd, and smoke consumed the scene. It was as if the dry earth beneath their feet had risen up, drawn by the chaos in the air. Even with no vision the mass marched forward.

The sound of bullets erupted.