Unknown Pov?
What a mess, huh
The ground... honestly, it was devastated. Do you know how disaster films depict destruction, with everything turned on its side, broken and shattered? Well, that's what it looked like, but in real life? The skyscrapers, or what used to be skyscrapers, were fragmented and tilted. Some were leaning into one another in a tragic, loveless embrace, giving up before the calamitous, oppressive weight set in. I can only imagine what it looked like while it was happening.
And the glass. The glass was insane. Not just glass, but glass that resembled some upscale deadly confetti sprayed across the terrain. The streets were more glass than pavement. The highways were destroyed and shattered, with gaping fissures and sinkholes consuming whatever crossed their path.
And then there were the cars. Like toy cars, some little kid picked up and threw them against the wall. They were halfway into buildings, pancake squished, and... you didn't even have to squint to see who was inside. They were people. Young, old people. Some looked like they'd been there for a while, an unfortunate number of years. It makes you wonder about their lives. What were they doing? Who were they waiting for? It's pathetic.
But in all of this, there was a child. Walking down the street where it used to be was never anything, but maybe he was no older than five. You know how some kids are hard to gauge in age. He was raggedy and dirty, his clothes hanging off as if they'd gone through the wash but never been taken out of the dryer. Then he had a mopped mess of black hair scattered in every direction.
But his eyes... bright green eyes. Almost as if he was taking the destruction and devastation, bodies with no life, buildings with no roofs, and assessing it. Taking notes like this was an everyday occurrence. The word I'm looking for is 'unfazed.' Creepy, right? But then I saw what was poking out of his pocket, thin, gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses.
So, he wasn't really wandering about aimlessly. There seemed to be a purpose to where he was going. He exited the blown-out buildings as if walking in and out of a department store. He was collecting—knives, shells, casings—what does a child like that need weapons for? It's disturbing.
He looked beneath the corpses' clothing. Was he trying to find something? Something that fits him? Something with a pocket? We'll never know; it's all up for grabs, but it's definitely disturbing.
And about the corpses—remember how I told you they were everywhere? This child was dragging them. He was individually, one by one, transporting them to try and make a mound. If you've ever smelled a scent like that, you know how vile it must be, but this child managed to get past it as if it were no big deal. Unless you've become desensitized, but come on, even if you have, this is the worst part of the entire thing. Why is he immune to it? What has he experienced in his young life?
And then it got weirder. After this little dude contributed to the origami body mound, he found some remnants—wood, paper—and stuck them on top. Then he darted into one of the charred apartment buildings and emerged moments later with a lighter. I saw the flame in his hand as he crouched. He didn't care. He took the pieces and set them aflame. Whoosh. And when the fire blazed too high, and the smoke started to seep, he pulled out a scarf—where did he get a scarf?—and wrapped it around his face, covering his mouth and nose. How breezy, I thought. But what would a five-year-old need to set a body mound on fire for? Sure, I'd understand that he'd want to avoid smoke inhalation, but a five-year-old? Seconds passed, and a hush fell over the scene save for the sound of crackling fire. Then I heard some voice scream above the fray. "Lev!"
And then this nun, surprisingly having a clean habit despite the devastation, runs toward him. She halts at this pile of the charred and dead, and for a moment, it seems she conveys some acknowledgment, sympathy, perhaps a wince.
This boy, Lev, puts his hands to prayer and lowers his head, eyes closed. This nun does the same. But in a sad tone, she intones, "Father of all, we pray to you for the dead and for all those whom we love but see no longer. Grant to them eternal rest. Let light perpetually shine upon them. May their soul and the souls of all the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."
But then Lev, in almost a whisper to her, responds in some too warm sentiment for such a bleak occasion, "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them." It's so personal and ritualistic in the face of so much destruction between this boy and this nun, so one has to question what it means for them when life is such a horrid affair.
Intriguing, don't you think?
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A Stern Yet Soothing Reminder
Sister Yolanda holds five-year-old Lev's little hand while they walk along the bombed street. With so many pieces of rubble and destroyed buildings, Lev's expression remains strangely blank. Sister Yolanda is an older Caucasian woman. She has a black eye patch over her right eye and a traditional nun's garb—her habit is a lovely stark white, although the setting is less than favorable.
"Lev, at least let someone know next time you decide to run away." Sister Yolanda's voice is commanding, as expected from someone in charge for so long. Yet there's also a motherly undertone, the softness from the user's advice. "You gave everyone a scare, child."
As they continue to walk—an unidentifiable warm, musty smell wafts through the air—she adds, "We don't want it to happen again. There are too many people in this world—too many after these wars—and killers and whoever—that would love to take advantage of a child like you."
Lev looks at the burning sunset without any inflection of worry and responds, "Don't worry, Sister."
He paused for a moment and glanced at Sister Yolanda once more. "You taught me how to protect myself, how to survive. You taught me how to do everything... but also." He became very intense at that moment. "God is my light. God is my shield, and I am His sword." He bellowed at the nun. "Just like Mother told you, yes? Those were her last words."
A soft smile graced Sister Yolanda's lips even as one tear trickled down the crevices on her face. It was a bittersweet smile—saddening yet warm—with an obvious transference of feelings once experienced. "Your mother," she whispered, "was very stubborn. Very headstrong—like both of her siblings—but theirs was a little more… toned down, shall we say. But your mother was a storm. So much energy. So much, really a burden, to be honest with you." Sister Yolanda laughed and shook her head fondly.
"But wherever she was, it was sunshine. If someone was down, she'd part the Red Sea to get them to smile, to laugh." Sister Yolanda had to wipe the fallen tear from her face as her eyes glossed over as if she were transported to another time.
Lev hung on every word; the other hand wandered to his pocket, fingers closing around the cool, soft metal of the glasses. He didn't overtly hold on—more of a nervous tick—trying to hold on to whatever was leftover of the mother he never had. He spent his life in the church with all the other orphaned children. His only connection to his mother was through nuns talking about her—with Sister Yolanda discussing her more positive notes than anything else. So he tried to hold on to anything physically connecting him to this woman who lived only in someone else's mind.