Lifeless Safety

He was there, standing in black fitted shirt and fatigue pants. I almost cry in desperation to run to his embrace—to ease the pain, for comfort—yet I can’t move, my body didn’t move.

I was too tired but I don’t want to sleep, afraid that he’ll be gone when I woke up or afraid to be awakened and discover, this is just a dream; a comforting stupor amid the worsening suffering. What else could it be? Where else could I be, but in the existing hell on earth.

Seeing him, even just a hallucination could it be, is a taste of heaven—seeing an angel in the middle of chaos and confusion.

He turned and saw me, and despite everything—the sound of mortars and riffle from an occurring combat not that far from us—I saw nothing but his somber face and faded smile, I heard nothing but his every step toward me.

He carried me in his arms. I felt every muscle—hard and tensed—in his arms and chest. He was wet with sweat, I didn’t care though, this is what I wanted, and this is where I craved to be. If I could just freeze time, I will—in that very moment—I don’t care how painful and weak my body ached, or if blood drained from my wrecked body, for in that very moment I felt safe, I felt home; I felt warm and loved.

He pressed his lips on my hair. I wish I could do the same; I was just too weak to respond.

Then, in the very moment he lay me in that white silk bed, the pain returned—one by one I felt the excruciating pain—more hurting this time, after the abrupt comfort, like finding way back to a smoky, suffocating atmosphere after breathing-in fresh air.

I wanted to cling on his arms, but I can’t move either. I plead through my eyes for him not to leave me, because I could not find my voice, either. Had he seen my plea? But who am I kidding? I know even before asking what would be his answer. He held my hand and squeezed it gently; he smiled—short but warm—then turned away from me.

He turned to his men to probably give a command; I was left disinterested, feeling my heart, is it still beating? Staring at his back I wondered, what could he be thinking, I want to know. But the doors were closed as my eyelids had finally won over my will to stay awake. I was defeated, both my will and my stubbornness to surrender to my tiredness.

I felt the vehicle move—moving me away from him, away from my life.

What difference could it do to save me now, when I know I’ll die, too—figuratively at least. But isn’t it much painful; much unbearable, to live lifelessly, just like a zombie—living without life, without heart?

I cannot blame anyone, though, even him or myself. It was a suicide, I know, but I have chosen to love him anyway—giving away my heart, giving away my life in the process.