Black and White and Red

Dear Lena,

I’ve never been very good at writing letters. Or liked writing letters. But this is the easiest way to explain.

Your fingers clench and release the pencil formulating how to put the one person who was always there for you, through the inevitable pain. Shouting from high overhead bleeds through the floorboards. Angry steps rain cobwebs and dust on your head, sprinkling silver into your hair; snowing white like the ashes that covered the ground. Heaps of dirty laundry fill the corners of your room, once bright colors as pungent as the scent of the seasonings that your mother used to cook with. But time has worn on the garments, just as it has worn on you and your loved ones, forcing the colors to seep away into oblivion leaving only faded pinks and grays.

This is the only way I can really think of to apologize. I was too late for Mama, but I can still save you. Do you remember that old doll that you loved? I do. I remember how you used to braid her hair, and change her clothes, and take care of her. You did a better job than I ever could. Better than our parents did. That is why I am writing this. To remind you that no matter what you faced you stayed strong. Keep staying strong. For me.

           The distant sound of explosions throbs in time with your pulse. You peer through the only window in the small cellar. Planes paint the world red and white and black. White ashes fall to the ground like the snow that you played in growing up. You want to reach out, to touch the soft white flakes, but you know you will be burned. Your stomach growls louder than it has in days. The beast inside raising its head and making your mouth water.

           The roar of the jets drowns out the squeal of the sirens. Plaster rains from the ceiling onto the cold cement your bare feet rest on. Your toes curl against the icy chill of the cement. An infant’s fingers curling in automatic response to pressure. Your sister was that small once; she used to smile at everything, chewing on toys with toothless gums. She came to visit you two weeks ago, she glanced at your humble surroundings and complimented you on your home. Her eyes had crinkled in distaste despite her words.

           She hasn’t smiled in years.

Wasn’t life more simple when we were younger? Our parents tried to protect us from the world, to keep us safe until we would be old enough to understand. It didn’t work out that way, but they still tried, didn’t they? I tried, too. Once they were gone. I tried to keep you safe, oh, you were so little. With your gap-toothed smile and your curly brown hair. Your eyes shone like stars. I tried to keep you innocent, but I was so young. A boy of ten, maybe. But not me. An eight-year-old boy with no idea how to live in this world, let alone raise another human being to thrive in it.

           You smile sadly at the paper, imagining your loving sister’s reaction. How her warm hands would smooth over the rips in the thick sheaf where you tear through in your urgency. She would be sitting at her desk, a solitary island in the middle of a sea of coworkers. A small puddle of ink pools where you rest your pen, staining the milky white of the paper. Another thud shakes the building rocking your pen in a thin line over the sheet. The ground vibrates with a low rumble, and you know that it is almost time. Loneliness pounds through your pores; a longing ache for a home that you never had and a childhood that you should forget. Outside the door, a man’s voice calls to you. Probably telling you to get out, to grab your gun, and to pull as many civilians out as possible.

           You let his words filter and mix into the heart-pounding thud of bombs dropping. You let them blend together until you can’t hear it anymore. Thoughts swarm in your head like a hive of angry bees. Buzzing. Throbbing. Stinging. You grip the pen tighter and tighter hoping that your hand will stop shaking.

It is almost time for me. I love you so much and I miss you dearly. I wish I could take back the mistakes I’ve made, goodness knows there were many. I think of you every day. I wish I could’ve been there for you; I wish I could’ve been better. I'm sorry that I won't be there.

           Love you forever,

           Your brother Jakob

           You fold the letter carefully and tuck it in the breast pocket of your fatigues. Tired fingers lace up the worn leather of your boots until they fold tightly against your feet and ankles. You hesitate for a long moment before gripping the rough metal of your gun. It rests comfortably in your hands, a device you use so often that it has become an extension of yourself. An appendage.

           A heavy sigh unfurls in your chest, dropping a deep weight onto your lungs and pulling on your breath. Your calloused fingertips grip the knob of the door and your brace yourself for what will happen when it opens. The tarnished knob turns smoothly, unleashing a wave of noise so thunderous that you take a step back. You move up the stairs taking you to ground level in a dreamlike state, stepping gingerly over mounds of rubble.

           Red and black and white stain the sky. Pulsing and ripping the clouds apart with gnarled hands and twisted fingers. Black-tipped fingernails rain down from the sobbing sky, demolishing everything they touch. White cinders singe and splinter through the air, shattering and burning everything they touch. Red seeps and pours through every surface, an aching, throbbing scarlet. You look at the transformed sky in awe and terror, ashes curling your eyelashes and blistering your skin when they come into contact.

           Your hand finds your coat pocket and the light pressure there eases the knot in your stomach. Your gaze finds the sky again, unable to bear the wreckage littering the ground. A black speck drifts down from the sky, a dark angel descending with a high-pitched whistle. When it makes contact, a split second of bliss floods your veins before… nothing.

A white piece of paper floats on a solemn breeze, cinders eating away and charring the edges. It lands gently in the steaming wreckage of a city destroyed.