CHAPTER-FOUR: BRIGHT NIGHTS

The sky was painted with shades of purple and black. As streaks of red tracer shells and aircraft spotlights illuminated the night sky, bombs and artillery shells lit the ground ablaze. “Tick-tock,” said the clock “tick-tock”. “Meow-meow,” said the cat “meow meow”. Screams echo through the thin walls of the apartment block as buildings collapsed around them. “Fire fire,” said the firemen “fire!“. “All citizens of Ashkan must seek shelter immediately” blared the siren “All citizens must seek shelter!“. “How peaceful...” a boy thought as he runs along the streets tainted with dried blood “...just another night in Ashkan!“.

The boy frolicked on the streets, jumping in puddles of crimson “waters” and dancing on flagstone of the pavements with almost uncanny happiness. He could hear the sirens screeching and shouting its message into the ears of both the ghosts and the living. The bombs and shells were drumming their chaotic beats of war, and the firemen were running, panting and screaming as yet another building collapsed, dragging souls down and trapping them in the ashen rubble. But he could also hear the cat and the clock. As a burning plane flew past his head and leaving a trail of inky smoke behind it, he glanced up. His eyes widened as it shined bright, and he smiled. “We got another one! We got another one!” He shouted in joy. The street lights were all cut, but he didn’t mind: the night was already bright enough as it was. Where was he going? Nowhere in particular. Why? He did not know either. All his friends were gone, and his parents too, but before mommy and daddy went to sleep they’d said that they’d always be with him, so he didn’t feel lonely tonight. He was surrounded by friends and family. They are all just sleeping, and it would be terribly rude of him to wake them up.

“FUCK ME! MEDIC! MEDIC!” A soldier cried out in pain as tears flowed down from his eyes to his left arm. It stung as the tears seeped into his gaping wound. No one responded. The boy ran towards him and looked. His left arm was shredded, and blood was pouring out of it as he desperately tried to bandage the massive wound with a piece of cloth torn from his clothes.

“Are you alright, sir?” The boy asked. The soldier glanced at him, then turned back to his wound to continue his frantic first aid.

“MEDIC!!” The soldier cried out once more “SOMEBODY! No... please... I don’t want to die...“. The boy looked at him, intrigued:

“Can I help you?” the boy asked with a cheerful voice. The soldier looked up again, longer this time.

“Kid... are you real?” The soldier asked as he breathed heavily, almost choking.

“Of course I am, sir,” The boy responded with glee.

“Well, go get me some help, will ya...?” The soldier’s voice started to fade away. The light in his eyes dimmed, and the tears ceased to flow. His empty glance gazed upwards, reflecting the bright night sky.

“No, can’t do, sir. You’re already dead!” The boy smiled. The mangled corpse did not respond. In his right hand was a picture. The boy moved to pick it up but stopped when he got closer. The picture was stained with blood, and he did not want blood on his clothes. It’s his last good shirt, after all. His mom made it for him when he was 7. It’s been years, but the shirt still fits him. The boy continued on his merry way.

“A balloon stall!” The boy thought as he saw balloon man sitting against the ruins of a building. Normally, he would wear bright red and white clothes with stripes: the typical balloon man look. On his good days, he would even wear a clown nose and clown makeup. “Hoho kid, do you want a balloon?” He would say as he handed a kid a balloon for free. A smile would bloom wide on his face. Not today, though. Today, the balloon man was feeling a bit tired. He wasn’t wearing anything bright nor colourful. Instead, it was an ugly suit of green and a funny-looking metal hat that was round and hard. The boy ran up to him. “Hey, mister! Can I have a balloon?” The boy asked politely but not shyly, one can’t get far with shyness, after all. No response. Of course not, the man was dead. In his arms was something resembling a little girl. The boy wasn’t sure, though. “The girl” was charred black beyond recognition. In the man’s hand was a handgun, military-issued. And in his head was a bullet, placed there not by an enemy but by himself. “Oh, he’s so tired he fell asleep. Best not to wake him up!”

As the bombs continued to tear through the city, as shells from distant howitzers uprooted buildings along with their history, the boy still ran along. Not away from something, no, there was no escape. And obviously not towards anything, there was nothing left. He ran because he felt like it was the right thing to do. Sometimes, somewhere deep down in our hearts, a desire is ignited, and that desire will never die out. There is no rhyme nor reason to it, that’s just how it is. Running was his desire. They say only cowards run from problems. But the boy was no coward, for he had no problems. His life is not perfect, not by a long shot. His shirt was a bit worn-out, his shoes too. He’d love to take a bath, but the rain was fine. The boy was happy, and that was good enough. His friends and his family will wake up someday. That soldier and the balloon man, they’ll wake up someday, too. Right?

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