I had a very strange dream some days ago, and thought I would share it in quite a different fashion. In some ways dreams may be entertaining, whereupon others may help you remember stuff, or see dilemmas in different ways. This just alarmed.
It was a small boy of about seven who was standing in the middle of the road while chaos seemed to overwhelm everything around him, not blinking an eye but looking, transfixed onto something I could not see. An explosion rendered me incapable of getting anywhere near him, leaning against a smoldering car. I guess my legs deemed useless, as did my voice. All I could do was watch in abject horror; a witness within the grip of complete inaction.
He was tall for his age, black hair, big brown eyes that perceived everything going on around him, as if by digital means adding to the surface of his eyes pictures of what he saw, making it seem even bigger. I must’ve seen him somewhere before; perhaps in another lifetime where happy endings had been worth the wait. Soot covered his face and once white clothes, now haggard and worn, as if he had been crawling and running his entire life. It brought dusty tears to my eyes. His feet were bare, covered in dirt and ash. If not for his head of hair and big eyes, tears glistening on the periphery of expulsion, the boy’s drab figure might have successfully blended with his surroundings, as gray and dull as he looked, and I might have missed him.
Black tinged smoke sifted across the road, made the windows move in mirror images, and wafted up and into cleaner air above the burning city. Walls, as lifeless as it had always been, looked bleaker still, painted thereon black elongated patterns that only bombs had the vision to create. The road was littered with scattered debris, but no bodies. That was a relief. I did not dare look elsewhere is search of any, though.
Somehow, this whole scene looked beautiful, in some twisted kind of sense. Perhaps it was the thought of how impossible it seemed to be in the middle of some kind of war, looking as if hope was lost, wondering over and over: Why me? Why here? Why us? Perhaps it felt to be the last thing I will ever see, and being the person that I am, I might just see the beauty when all else fails. Perhaps it was the movement all around, slow but sure, moving as if unable to stop. Wars had to pass sooner than later, right?
Movement to my right caught my attention. I saw a woman, black hair, sad brown eyes, her mouth agape as she screamed and reached for something. The boy, I realized. She screamed and screamed his name, of which I could not hear a single syllable. I was deaf, too, which was a funny surprise. I did not realize until then. She clambered over boxes and desks and burning tires, her state of mind all but oblivious to the danger, whilst everything around her exploded into little fragments. Someone was shooting at her. I tried to warn her, but she had only eyes for her son. She did not seem to care about whatever shot at her from behind, like cowards in a bad cowboy movie. The boy did not lose his stance, nor did it look like his face had any more emotion left. His youth was yanked from him the moment they started to run and got separated along the way.
Mother caught up to him and yanked him from the ground, encircling her one arm around his waist while she placed the other behind his head, burying his face against her shoulder. Bullets shimmered and bounced off every surface except her back. I was glad. I watched them as they ran to my left, towards the curb, where she could easily vanish behind the corner of the building behind me. Despite the danger ahead, I got to see someone survive.
A bomb exploded next to her. Dread filled my world and made everything real.
She ducked, and covered her son’s body with her own. At first, it looked like the bomb would do no damage, perhaps just scar some tissue, until a second bomb enshrouded them in flame and pure white smoke, twirling into the air like a tornado.
I got my voice back and screamed: NO! NO! WHY, you son of a bitch? NO!
The next moment I was walking on a cobbled road, with a huge boulder barring my way. Except for tendrils of white fog drifting like a forlorn soul, the day was clear with little to no clouds. Mother and son stood next to the road, looking at me. They were holding hands. They were still covered in soot. Yet, they seemed free. The mother smiled at me as I started to climb the boulder, urging her son forward.
She told him, Go on, son, show him the rain.