A/N: Hey guys, this is something I wrote a while back for an english assignment in response to 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak. Hope you like it! :)
____________________________________________________
This is a most unusual story, one of the least ghastly I’ve seen, though it plays in my mind like rotten flesh lingers in my nose. Perhaps I tell it to you now because it lies amongst the most tragic. In today’s modern society I see a large amount of young people, much more than I did perhaps sixty years ago. Some have been robbed of life by the recklessness of drink driving or other mundane matters, while others were haunted by the lives they left behind. They come to me more frequently, an endless stream of broken pieces. Their rough edges and fragmented bones shred ribbons of blood in my hands as broken glass would. These kinds are always the same, each and every one a replication of their predecessor. Their faces blank with shock, their eyes haunted by remembered demons, and their bodies broken and scarred by long lost battles. Mostly they melt with relief when they see me; they cling to me and thank me. Sometimes they cry, in reprieve or regret. Those are the most tragic; the ones who do not really wish to greet me. I’ll tell you more about them later, but for now you can accompany me on one of my more grievous assignments.
Smoke cloaked the buildings like a wet winter coat and the cobblestones beneath my feet crumbled as if made of biscuits. The screams tore through the air like thunder and when the wailing came to an end silence filled the void. A silence filled with hesitation and uncertainty, a silence filled with absence and accompanied by death. The child was young and his broken body lay among the debris like twigs fallen from a tree. Blood and tears stained his skin. I scooped him up into my arms, cradling his broken bones and bleeding crevices. Later I would learn this child’s name, we would watch the world unfold beneath us and he would help me write this story but for now he was just a bleeding, broken boy. With my load clinging to my back I moved on to collect the next young victim. My steps wavered, my shoulders sagged and my head drooped. The weight of another bleeding war and human carnage clutched at every inch of me. Like I said, it was one of my gloomier afternoons.
***
Lydia Ellison, despite her own preferences and habits was just an average teenage girl. Unfortunately in today’s society most adolescent females suffer poor self-esteem, feelings of hopelessness and victimisation from their peers on a regular basis. Brooke McPherson however had a mission and a voice of conviction to support it. She was bold and forthright with eyes like burning torches and a tongue of serrated steel. The difference between the two girls; one was lost, the other was marching through life with a goal ahead and not a thought otherwise. They were not friends, they did not enjoy one another’s company. Strangely, as humans often are, this was not the case on Facebook. A newsfeed, a video, a status. These intangible words were as real as weapons for warfare, as deadly as a bullet puncturing your flesh.
Scrolling through the pointless updates Lydia encountered a video. Uploaded by Brooke, it was a plea for help, for compassion. Brooke’s caption read ‘Stop the killing! Save the innocent! Support Syria’s children!’ Intrigued, Lydia clicked play to watch a second a day in the life of a child victimised by war[1]. It left her feeling saddened and disgusted, but she scrolled on.
Further down the page another post from Brooke caught her eye.
‘Lydia is a filthy, miserable trash heap. The day she was born made the world a worse place. Why doesn’t she disappear?’
The words projected through the screen and bore flaming images into Lydia’s eyes. They stabbed her deeply, like a knife wound. Yet another humiliation, another display of torment. Lydia stared into the screen, embedding the words in her brain as her body soaked up the pain, by now it was a well accustomed hurt.
At the back of her mind, nagging voices demanded her attention. It’s true, they said, you’re worthless. As you can imagine, these words were quite damaging and as I would later discover they were accomplices for many more insults and harsh comments. Like a pair of weather-worn rain boots, Lydia was starting to break. The nagging voices wormed their way inside her mind and her mask of coolness was sagging with the weight of pretence. In my profession I’ve witnessed the slaughter of many humans through the glorious quest of war and greed. In this new progression of the world I’ve come to observe new warpaths, paved not with guns and bayonets but with ignorance and words. I do not fully understand these weapons, but I know without a doubt they maim as well as a sword. They stain the human world like an infected wound oozing beneath the bandages, and if not treated correctly it will fester and decay until the world is left with broken people and my arms sag with the weight of its sorrow.
The room was full of bustling people. The attraction of the event, the pull of the words was as sweet pollen is to a bee. The crowd could not escape their curiosity, their conditioned desire to know more about the truly dreadful crimes occurring in the world.
Brooke stood before a microphone, her eyes glinting and her words loud. An underlying message delivered every word to the onlookers. I dare you to challenge me, I dare you to think otherwise. This was after all, a fierce girl with a fiery passion.
“It is time we did something to counter these horrific crimes against humanity. We cannot ignore the truth any longer. These children need our aid. Imagine your children in their place; imagine your children suffering from the disease and bullets of war!”
The slideshow behind the podium cut to a clip of bombs and firearms. The audience watched as the victims fell and felt repulsed by the brutality. The crowd believed they were disgusted, they thought these images were horrifying. I can tell you, they could not begin to imagine it. As I recollected these events myself, the victims’ cries encircled me. So far away from the battleground, yet I was reminded of the pain and destruction I felt walking amongst the broken bodies. Though I had long escaped, I felt the crushing concrete cascading upon me and suffocating dust itching in my throat. I did not look forward to returning, I did not smile at the thought of dozens of beaten down, bleeding souls hobbling into my arms, awaiting my embrace. No, the ordinary person could not truly imagine such horrifying surroundings.
It was two weeks after that before I encountered Lydia. She was not the girl you met before, she had no strength left to hang on. Instead her fingernails were chipped and caked with blood, clawing at the empty air but catching on nothing. Her eyes reflected haunted images and ghosts of pain. Her body was frail and she barely had enough strength to stand. Her will to live had deteriorated rapidly. Weeks of torment and bullying had drained her of hope and left her to deflate like an old, forgotten balloon.
It was sunny, but the rays were scorching. The breeze was cool, but ran like sandpaper against your skin. It was a day of misery painted like a picture of perfection. The broken girl stood above me, perched on a precipice while I was anchored beneath her staring up the steep rock face. Tears ran down her face, the tracks tearing seams in her fragile mask. Her soul called to me, a prisoner, from within its damaged cage. I could not read her thoughts, so I wondered and I waited. Did she truly want to join me? Would she make the jump? Would she leap from the cliff and fall into my arms as yet another broken child of this new generation?
As I mentioned at the beginning, my job is not a cheery expedition. It is moments like these I wonder where I’ll find myself in ten years, fifty, perhaps even a hundred. And where I will find you humans, who so carelessly inflict pain upon one another. Where will I find you and how broken will you be? But these are only wonderings, ones I cannot control. For now I continue to pick up your broken souls, scarred by their own neighbours. I do not know what words of comfort I can offer them, so instead I welcome them with open arms. All the while I marvel at how these humans could suffer so much pain at their own kind’s hand. I still cannot determine the truth of the matter so the web remains unwoven, and now I ask you the question plaguing me. How can you humans be so kind and yet so cruel? How do you have the capacity to save a stranger and harm a neighbour? How do you decide who is worthy of saving and who must suffer?
_____________________________________________________
[1] ‘Most Shocking Second a Day Video’ Save the Children. (c.2014).
