The War

The stench of burnt coffee clouded his thoughts. Bombs exploded outside, every crash making his skin quiver. His eyes were closed. Forced. He tried to put it away.

He wanted silence. Peace. Blankness.

There was a necessity, an urge, pushing through his chest. He needed to see her. But fear coiled his spine every time he thought about the possibility.

A fantasy where the both of them were in the same room in silence. Every object in the room would scream betrayal. He was not meant to be with her. They were mortal enemies. But two enemies in love? He had considered that and frankly, enjoyed the prospects of that.

With her, his heart had grown wings. But now, those wings were on fire, clasping the organ within. He stood up, picked up his coat and stormed out of the room.

Gun shots cut past him. Her house was across the road. He had to reach her, but the two families lived a street apart – mortal enemies, engaged in this ridiculous urban battle.

How, he asked himself constantly, had he managed to love someone whom he would never be with forever? Did she love him? Perhaps. But there will be nobody else like her, he was certain.

Even if there could be millions and millions more.

He walked on, some bullets cut through his arms, blood glinting against the humid afternoon sun.

More bullets caught his face, his bony cheeks cracking, waves of numbing pain coursing through his skull. Numbing pain. He laughed at himself in this desperate time.

Everything seemed ironic. As ironic as his life being the death of him. She was his life.

But he died. Halfway. And she wasn’t there to meet him. On the other side.


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