Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Tommy and the Yanks

I remember Tommy telling me, as a teenager, that he would have liked to die on a rainy day. He said he would have felt better leaving the world if the day was wet and cold. In the end, they killed him on such a beautiful April morning, on the first real day of spring. It is all I remember thinking while I watched, mesmerized, as his head slowly exploded, droplets of blood taking flight like a flock of startled birds. It is all I remember thinking, while he keeled over as though in slow motion. It is all I remember thinking as he lay in my arms, dead yet still warm, gone yet still familiar. He would have liked to die on a rainy day.Once I got home, it took me a while to clean the dried blood which had caked to my skin. The clothes I was wearing I had to throw away as they were beyond recovery. I would have never imagined how much blood could rush forth from a human body. To me, the flow of blood seemed endless, a majestic crimson river which streamed forth from unknown depths. Of course I was not able to do anything about Tommy’s lifeless body. I had to leave it there on the cobbled street like carrion left to the birds. I am sure the Americans will take care of it. They will dump it in one of the many communal graves that seem to be cropping up like mushrooms recently. They will take my best friends body and throw it in a nameless pit next to thousands of other fellow Europeans they have slaughtered since the invasion began exactly six months ago.

2 Comments:

Blogger corpodibacco said...

this is...
what is this about? Is it a real memory of yours? Is it someone else's?
Just a story?
It is quite impressive anyway.

Well, of course it is.

11:36 am  
Blogger Wonko the Sad Clown said...

It is just a story. It was supposed to be the beggining of a novel but never got round to continuing it.

12:43 pm  

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