Bullets Formed from Tears

The cries of people meeting their deaths are everywhere. Seth hears it no matter which way he turns. Smoke is thick in the air, the rubble of old buildings and bullet shells littering the ground. It’s pure and utter chaos, screaming and fighting and shooting and death. The city of Perlshaw has turned into a bloodbath. 

It wasn’t always like this. The city didn’t use to be a symbol of tears and tombstones, but now, that’s exactly what it is. A graveyard. 

Seth trips over his black, chunky combat boots. Sure, sometimes they make him a little less agile, and so what if they're pretty stereotypical for the “end of the world” or whatever. He didn’t care. They keep his toes safe from frostbite, and protect his feet from blisters and sores. Most of the others hadn’t been so lucky. 

The country has turned a blind eye to the horrors occurring, death tolls believed to be lower and constant false lies of safety being whispered in their ears. Only the residents of what was once Perlshaw know the truth, because it has become their lives.

Another bomb goes off, shrapnel, debri, and balls of flame hurtling everywhere. Several people are hit, brought down and killed in one shot. Others are thrown to the ground by the force, or burned and bleeding. He had been fortunate, and merely lost his balance. He throws his hands out just in time to stop his chin from bashing open on the rough cement, ignores the flare of pain in his left wrist, and is off again. 

Seth has learned that you can’t hesitate; the line between life and death is thinner than paper. Stopping to assess his injuries or mark out a destination simply isn’t an option. 

Geneva learned, too. Seth is still haunted by the memories of her blank, unseeing eyes and scarlett-covered face. He had tried to shield her from the spray of bullets, but the metal still found its mark. He wasn’t fast enough; he never was. The echo of that day plays on repeat in his head, whether he is asleep or awake. 

That was only a few months ago; she was so young, all tan skin and long dark hair. Seth’s best friend, and somewhere deep inside of him, his lover. 

Now, guilt claws at his mind relentelsey, reminding him that he couldn’t save her. The contrast of dark red blossoming on bronze skin had become a part of him. It was his enemy, his worst fear, and his motivation. 

Despite how much he wanted to see her again, he knew she would have wanted him to continue fighting. 

“They've changed us,” she always said, “it’s time for us to change them too.” She never even got a burial. 

The first few weeks were filled with silent tears and overwhelming grief. Insomnia had taken its place, his barrier between reality and the terrible nightmares. He found himself staring off into space more often than not, barley even thinking. Geneva was the only thing on his mind. 

But one day, he broke. His water supply was far too low, and so he forced himself to roll out of bed and trek to the small stream nearby to replenish it. Upon reaching the location, his breath hitched and his vision clouded; it had always been their favorite spot. 

Hours were spent there, laughing and talking and bonding. Why did he choose to go back? All it did was unleash the memories, blood and bullets and tear tracks on far too pale skin and- 

Someone was hyperventilating, and in the distance, he knew it was himself. Choking on his tears, he dropped his backpack and screamed. He screamed his throat raw until he tasted copper, and then some. He was there, shrieking and crying for hours. It wasn’t a pretty sight, he had lost all of his composure, but it helped. 

Everything bottled up inside was bursting out, ripping it’s way from his soul and making itself known. He finally accepted it. Geneva was gone, he was alone, and she wasn’t coming back. Lying to himself wasn’t doing anybody any good. 

She would have wanted him to move on. She was strong and resilient like that, and always got back up after being knocked down. Seth wished he could be like her. Telling himself the truth was the hardest thing he had ever done, but also one of the most important. After that day, things got a little bit easier. 

Another loud explosion tethers Seth back to the presence. The dust rising in the air isn’t helping the stitch in his side, but he blocks out his burning throat and continues his journey down the bloodstained road. Jumping over dead corpses, ducking away from stray pieces of wreckage, shouldering his way through waves of desperate people isn’t new at all. The past two and a half years have presented nothing but loss and pain and fear, but now, there was a flicker of hope. It was so small that almost no one could see it, but Seth did. 

The troop’s numbers were shrinking, guns running out of ammo faster and more soldiers dying each day. Riots made more frequent appearances, the citizens hitting back even harder. Hushed whispers circled around constantly, ones about groups of people who were planning to take down their attackers. Few believed it was the truth, the fire in their eyes haven been smothered by the destruction of their own lives. But Seth did. 

He was done fighting and killing to survive. The number of people he had seen fall at the hands of the ones who once called themselves their leaders is higher than any child should have to count. Revenge wasn’t close, but it was there. 

Not finding it would kill him, he knew deep inside it would. So he keeps surviving. Maybe one day, he will rest; but only when he does his part in watching the government crumble like his own neighborhood did. For Geneva.