The living war-marks

War mark, the silent child

James POV (point of view)

I heard the alarm clock ring, and I yawned.

The room was way too bright for my eyes, and I felt my eyes getting heavier again.

"I just want to sleep, I am so terribly tired." I said out-loud, sitting up in the bed.

My clothes were laying on the floor, where I left them last night. I never really had any fashion sense. I just used what clothes I had.

I walked over to the pile, and picked up the blue hoodie. It was still a little wet from the rain last night, but I didn't care. Even though I had money, the people I knew thought I was poor.

I suppose they had a reason for it, considering I never really wore anything other than my hoodie.

My jeans were hanging over the back of a chair, and I smiled.

I'd always had a talent for leaving things in places, and forgetting them there. I didn't recall hanging my jeans on the chair, but I knew I had.

A mild breeze flew by as I opened the door, and I shivered.

It sure was cold outside.

I locked the door, and put the key under the mat.

"Well, I really should get going." I said to myself, as I walked out into the street.

When I was outside of the building, I took a deep breath, and smiled.

"I belive I can finally do it this time. Maybe I can get them to see?"

I opened the door, and walked down the hall.

It was beautifully decorated with paintings on the walls, and a red carpet stretching out on the floor. I stopped in front of the door, and heard voices inside.

"Everyone is here." I said out loud, and smiled.

"Thank you all for coming here today. We have a lot to discuss, so let's get right into it." I said as I opened the door.

Everyone sat down, and I looked around the room. It was filled with all of the world's most powerful people. Amoungst them were, Barack Obama, Narendra Modi (prime minister of india), Angela Merkel, Bill Gates, Vladimir Putin and many more.

I was nervous, nervous because of the reason that all of them were gathered in one room. I sighed, and picked up my papers.

"Do you mind telling us why we are all here? I would like to know why we are here." Narendra said, and I looked at him.

"We have all heard the silly bed-time-stories about the War children right?" I said, looking at the confused faces.

"Well, what if they weren't bed-time-stories at all. What if all of those stories were, in fact, true?"

I heard someone sigh, and chairs started scraping against the floor.

"This meeting is finished, James." Obama said, and two others nodded.

"There are no such things as war marks James." Bill Gates said, and the others stood up.

"The only people with memory of war, are the people who have taken part in it."

I watched them walk out of the room. When the last one was out, I leaned backwards in the chair and closed my eyes. Why can't they just understand? They do exist, and they hold precious information. Information the whole world could need.

I put the key in the lock, and turned it. The old wooden door opened, and I walked in. I was angry. They wouldn't accept me talking about anything that was out of the ordinary.

When I was inside, I closed the door again, and sat down on the floor with my back against (the door) it.

There were shoes and papers scattered about everywhere, since I was not the most tidy person.

I picked up a book that was laying on the floor. It (The book) was so old, that it was bound with leather. I looked at it, and sighed.

Suddenly, horrible images flashed before my eyes. I tried closing them to make the images vanish. There was piles of dead people everywhere, and there wasn't one silent moment.

People were screaming, guns were shooting, planes were bombing. I tried biting my lip to keep myself from crying, but it didn't work.

I laid my head in my hands, and felt tear after tear streaming down my face. In war, nothing is silent and the children are never heard. I couldn't take it, it was too painful.

I opened my eyes again, and started screaming. I screamed so loud, that it seemed like time itself had stopped for a few seconds.

When I stopped, the images were gone, and I laid down on the floor. I had no intention of sleeping, but the floor seemed like the best place at the moment.

I pulled my hood over my head, and tried closing my eyes again. The images came back, and I started screaming again.

This was how my life was. From the day I was born, I have seen these things.

I am a War Child, a mark of war. A meaningless peacebringer, a person with valuable information. If I could just get them to listen, and believe me. Then, and only then,  they would know.