Paintings of Scarlet - Part 3

Little chubby fingers grabbed cold, thin rails. Little chubby fingers, with little chubby feet and chubby arms and legs, bouncing and running around, laughing and crying. The sun smiled down at these little beings, so happy and lost in their own pretty, cheerful heads. The children played – some on see-saws, some on the slides; some swung from the sky to the ground, while some spun themselves round into fits of delirium, till they crashed laughing to the ground. It was a masquerade of green and pink and yellow and blue and red and orange; feet and toes and fingers and noses and hair and snot and tears and teeth, all glaring at the world, daring it to ruin this place of happiness, mocking its failure to do so.

I smiled at the boy as he hit my knee with his tiny fist. The sun illuminated the golden locks on his head, radiating off his beautiful round cheeks. He scowled at me, standing with his red-clad arms crossed, angry at me for not playing with him. I looked at him, at this perfectly oblivious little person, my insides slowly dissolving into light, fluttery powder.

“Go away,” I suddenly said to him, urgently. “Go! Run away. Far from here. Run away and don’t turn back!” I urgently pushed him away, my heart pounding in my mouth, my hair sticking to my back. He burst into tears, and I collapsed. I collapsed, worn down and dead, and I ran. I had to run, away from that place, away from that happiness. I slowly walked, one step after another, right foot, left foot. My eyes closed themselves, and I took a deep breath, silently counting in my head. I stopped and looked at those little chubby fingers, once again. My breath stopped and a devil smiled on my lips, and I turned away and walked. “Tick, tick, tick...” went the clock in my head.

Hundreds of little fingers flew into the air. There it was. Hundreds of little fingers, lost in that great, breathing mass of red and orange and yellow. It spread, eating everything, destroying everything in its way. It screamed and exploded, spreading its wrath and fury to those little beings.

Fire. Red, hot fire. Burning. Burning their skin, burning their hearts, their brains; like a tsunami, washing everything away, cleaning everything, burning everything, eating everything. The burning, hot, red fire.

It lumped at my throat, collected at my eyes, forming hot, shooting balls of fury in my own throat. Tears dripped, burning my skin, burning my eyes, hot and red, as I looked at the little object burning and destroying all these little lives. One little bomb, and so much red, hot, burning fire, taking so many innocent, happy little lives.

I watched, and it seared through my ribs, piercing my skin, that sharp, sharp pain. It collected at my throat, as I gasped. The screams, the shrill words of shock, of pain, as little children and their parents cried for help.

And then I thought of my brother – being tortured, being taken hostage for no reason; not alone, but with eleven more little brothers and sons of other people, who were all killed, but my brother. I thought of them, and I looked at this, and there was coolness. Like cool, calm water, running over me, over my skin; easing my soul, easing the pain, calming everything; solemn, cold, smooth water. It ran over my neck, flowing, soothing, cold water, cleaning away my sorrow, wiping away my guilt. I breathed, and turned away.