My teenage sister smiled her beautiful smile and I stretched my hand out to touch the image of her face on the mirror. Then she was gone. Always the moment was fleeting. Never longer than the time it took for the smile to register in my mind. I put the shaver to the side of the sink before walking out of the bathroom and down the crumbling corridor.
The front façade of the building was gone; cracked, crushed and blown away by a shell two weeks ago. I stepped into my bedroom and readjusted the tarp spread next to the shattered window. A quarter of the wall had crumbled into a mound of broken bricks on the ground outside, but I was luckier than my neighbors because part of my house was still livable and because I could still see images of my sister in the bathroom mirror.
That image was the reason why I could not leave the house and walk twenty miles to the closest refugee camp. I had lost my family and I resolved not to lose the last of her memory. I went into the adjacent bedroom and dug through my grandmother’s wardrobe. I took off my shirt and pants and slipped into her old rags then tied my longish hair into a folded pony-tail at the nape of my neck. Next I wrapped a dirty scarf over my head, pulling it forward until it formed a hood around my face. It was not a disguise I took to easily, but I learned from experience that an old ugly woman had less chance of being beaten and questioned by over-zealous soldiers.
When I finally stepped outside, I found the street desolate except for a few men in foreign uniform. I stuck out my chin, bowed my back, hunched my shoulders then shuffled out of the door with a sack twisted around one arm. A few soldiers threw rocks at me from the upper floor of a neighboring building and guffawed at my feeble attempts to avoid them. I didn’t look up; for fear that they would take the action as a show of defiance. I also didn’t look up to gaze upon the faces of my tormentors because my dignity was now nothing compared to my need to survive.
There had been more bombings last night, so I headed in the direction where I thought it had happened. Sure enough, about the devastated area was wood for me to collect. A few other people were already there but I didn’t expect any trouble from them, because there was more than enough for all of us. As I shifted through the rubble, I would come across books and trinkets and pieces of people, all of which I ignored. But for some reason I could not explain, I would pick up every photograph I found and put it into the sack together with the wood. Once the bag was filled, I shuffled my way home. Again I had to tolerate a wall of cat-calls, rude remarks and stinging debris. But they were better than bullets.
On reaching home, and after I had closed the chafed door, I lined the photographs on the floor, one by one, along with hundreds of others I’d collected. Some faces were familiar to me: Men who went to the same school while I was growing up, women who had caught my attention, teachers, tradesmen, mothers and fathers and the children who came to my Math classes.
Maybe I was going insane, I thought, yet I felt saner than ever. I built a small fire in the hearth with the precious fuel I had collected.
You must eat, I heard my grandmother said.
“I am not hungry, Nana.”
But you must eat.
“Can’t you see, the world is coming to an end. No one cares about us. No one wants to help us. What use is food, if all it does is only to prolong the misery? We are all gone. We no longer exist.”
We only cease to exist when our memory is gone.
I turned my face to a dark corner. “There is nothing to eat,” and I am too tired to scavenge, I thought but did not say aloud.
A sharp knock fell on the door. Look outside. The young soldiers have brought you something.
I stood up and reluctantly opened the door. On the top step, just outside the threshold was a basket of fruits. I brought it inside and chomped down hungrily. Though they looked freshly plucked and dewy, they tasted rancid and irony. I didn’t care; I ate.
Mother appeared and began to comb my hair. “Why did they leave the food here?” I asked, half wishing that they might be poisoned in some way. Mother only smiled in reply, but her eyes were sad.
When I had eaten my fill, I went upstairs to wash my face. The dim light revealed my reflection on the mirror and I was startled to see my mouth, chin and neck covered with sticky dark blood. I dipped my hand into the nearest bucket and washed and scrubbed and gargled. I was about to reach for the second bucket but stopped. It had not rained in two days, so this was no time to waste water I reminded myself.
I stood up and stared into the mirror. My face was clean. Again I saw my sister’s smile, but it was not her face – it was mine. I stepped back, pinning myself against the wall, and I gazed upon the smile for the longest time. Then I returned to the bedroom and changed back into my own clothes. Slowly I walked downstairs. As I approached the fireplace, I eyed the basket, and saw that it was a broken crate with a well-chewed arm inside. Immediately I fell down on my knees, the horror of what I was seeing and its significance beyond my comprehension.
“You must finish your meal,” my grandmother said.
I began to gag and to weep.
“You must finish your meal,” a thousand voices said behind me.”
“I can’t,” I sobbed, “I can’t.”
“Please,” they said, “for our sake. Please don’t let our memory die.”
I stretched out my trembling hand, and just as I was about to touch the crate, I pulled it back. “I can’t,” I said again, “I can’t”, and I folded my arms over my stomach, as though trying to hold back an intolerable ache.
Overhead the screech of falling shells grew louder and louder. Run, run! the voices shouted, but I could not move. Run, run! they called again, but I could not get up. A searing heat blasted into my face and I was hurled against the remaining wall which crumbled moments after pieces of me hit it. I stared at the open sky, feeling numb and immobile.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the voices.
“That is alright,” they replied. “You are one of us now. We can find others to keep our memory alive.”
“Why?” I asked, “Is it not enough that we know?”
The voices were silent for a moment as though pondering. Then they said, “Our death must be avenged, and the death of those who kill us must be avenged.”
“Why?”
“Because that is how we have chosen to live life.”
I drifted off into sleep and soon woke among a sea of people. Then I understood. There was no death, only suffering and revenge.
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