After lunch, James went to his room to draw with a stack of paper and a pen he got from the printing shop. James always enjoyed drawing, saying it takes his mind off his problems. I've already seen a few of his works. He's really good. He drew cabins, trees and animals. My favorite is a toad sitting by a river. It looked so realistic and comical, with wide-set eyes and spots. But that doesn't mean a toad is my favorite animal.
Since I'm already done with most of duties, I decided to head to my room. As I sat on the floor, fiddling with a piece of thread I found, I heard the sound of explosions.
I looked up instinctively, and guessed the war must be drawing close. Not that it ever drew too close. I guess there's just some kind of invisible boundary between the war and the village, keeping the village in, keeping the war out.
I wondered what it would be like joining a war. I don't think it's going to be a happy experience, but it'll probably be more interesting than my current life. You reload a rifle instead of washing your underwear. You dive selflessly into battle, fierce and glorious, instead of cleaning up chicken poop. You happen to be some brave hero instead of a girl named Yule Connor.
But that doesn't mean I like wars. The thing is, I don't. I just want the war to be over somehow. Yesterday, when I passed by a small shack only a bit larger than the family's chicken coop, I saw a thin, frail mother wrapped in a thin coat, clutching her baby, sick and crying. Beside them is a small bony boy who must be her son. The mother looked at me with the same gaze a helpless rabbit has as a hunter pointed his gun at its head.
I would've given her something, but when I checked my pocket, all I have is a bit of string. It doesn't look very helpful. Everyone in the country has ben affected by the war, but somehow, a few families will make it and even though they won't return to their pre-war state, they will go on with life. I guess this mother and her children simply aren't one of those families.
I felt guilty as I walked away, having nothing to give them. If my gaze on them turned to food, maybe that would help them. But that's not possible.
Right now, I feel guilty more than ever, remembering that memory. I should've helped them. Given them my coat. Say something good. But what would I say? That there is still hope? Desperate people won't be happy with kind words. In fact, they'll probably be angrier. Angry about their helpless situation. Angry about having recived only kind words despite their condition. Angry at everything.
Right then, I heard explosions. I would've passed it off, probably part 2 of the explosions a while ago, but the latest explosions were disturbingly louder. I stood up immediately and peered out the window. Everything looked normal. Afternoon sky. Snow. Forest.
The sudden explosion of orange and smoke surprised me.