Patterns. Colours combinations of green, and a darker variable of it. Well that's as far as his little eyes can see. They were worn by men who are burly built but moved rather sluggishly. He could make out an instrument they wore on their backs on a strap, draped across their chest. He did not know what it was made of, but he knew it was larger than him for sure. He was not scared, but right as his little brain could process the scenario taking place as mother encased her smaller hand in his, both of their eyes fall on a man plummeting into the ground.
Mother did not have time to cover his eyes. The scene is tainted into his once young mind, painted in a gruesome image of blood and white. The sound and mental visuals were enough to immobilise him to this very day. Even in his old age, the memory is ripe, and challenging to get over with. It ran smoothly at the back of his mind like silk sheets prepared wonderfully for a king, accompanied by jagged breathing and a heavy heart. A heart restlessly beating for what he thought he could have done, before remembering he was clueless to his country's reality back then.
He looks out tardily, lonely brown eyes meeting the white light coming on to his window, thin grey hair clinging on to his scalp. Wrinkled, bony fingers slowly reaching out to pull unwashed curtains aside. His chest rumbles becomes a battleground, his eyes channeling clear blue pools when his eyes fall on certain moving patterns. Burly men who moved sluggish, wearing the colours he thought he would never set eyes upon. The men walk in perfect strides, machine guns resting heavily on their chest, faces clad in sinister smiles.