Shatter and Burn

 

“I know I’m going to get hurt, but I can’t stop now.

                        As time goes by, the thirst grows stronger.

The fire blazes up endlessly: I’m not afraid of any future with you…

                                        Until we crash and burn”

 

I bring the mug to my lips. The handle is a bit too hot for the back of my finger: that should be a sign. But I obstinately press my lips against it as if I needed to be sure. Yes, too hot still.

I can feel his eyes on me and his mind spinning, trying to find the words. No, the words he found them already. He was pretty damn clear in his way to announce me that he was going to join the rebels in their fight for freedom. That he, a kid, would raise his fist and curse the government as loud as he can in a sea of angry people and armed cops and hope to come back without a scratch. He found the words. Not these ones for sure, but something close to it. I blow on my drink, an excuse to keep my eyes on something other than him, and approach it again to take a sip.

“You’ll burn…”

He stops and watches me squeeze my eyes shut as I, indeed, burn my tongue. I’ve never liked coffee. He knows it, I know it, and now I feel stupid.

I feel so stupid, in fact, that water appears at the corner of my eyes.

“Mark.” he breathes. “Say something.”

I shake my head with a frown. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I know that if I do, those tears I have been struggling to blink away will betray me and escape. I won’t let them. Because then, he will find a way to make me believe that everything will be alright, but everything can’t be, everything won’t be, alright.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” I whisper, still staring at my mug that is slowly roasting my fingers like logs in a fireplace.

“What?”

“Democracy.”

He sighs, I hear him shift on his seat, and before he can say anything, I add:

“Don’t answer. I don’t know why I asked.”

I don’t know why I asked. I know my friend so well, I know his insatiable desire for freedom, I know his hope for a better tomorrow, his dedication to giving his future children a world worth living in, his lust for peace and his ache for change. I know Jackson. I should have expected this conversation. I should have come prepared.

“You don’t need to understand.”

“I do.”

I meet his eyes by accident and it punches me in the throat. These two black holes, I thought I had gotten used to having them reading me like an open book, digging into my chest like they were allowed, and messing up with my heartbeat without a reason. I thought I had. But Jackson’s eyes were such, like you can’t really tell why his gaze is so unbearable and heavy, but you know you can’t look away. They bore into me, slightly squinted because of the distance which is not that big but big enough for his eyesight, and they force me to remember that it might be the last time I see their sparkles, which would get lost in trauma if he goes on the streets, or worse: if he loses them to rubber bullets like we see on the news.

“I want to,” I add. Maybe I will let him convince me that what he does is the right thing to do so that I don’t have to convince myself of the contrary out of selfishness.

“Well… you could always come with me.”

“No ing way.” I let out with more haste than intended.

He his lips and clenches his jaw, and a part of me knows he is about to say something hurtful as that’s what he does when he is pissed.

“See, that’s the thing with you, you say you care but-”

“Don’t turn this into an argument.”

“I’m not, I’m just saying that-“

“Jack stop.”

His eyes wander about the room before they land on a spot in the corner. I can see his mind spinning again.

“I know damn well I’m not gonna change your mind anyway.”

Silence fills the room, if we forget how loud he is breathing. I don’t remember the last time I fought with him. Last time, it was probably about something petty, we probably lashed at each other for half an hour and went on about our day until we forgot we had even fought.

“When is the next protest?” I ask, not sure what else to say. I couldn’t stand his rigid expression.

“Friday.”

“Good luck.”

“That’s it? Good luck?”

“What were you expecting? A bulletproof jacket and a farewell letter?”

“There you go…” he sneers.

“Don’t give me attitude?”

He points at himself with his usual fake-surprised look he has when he argues. “Because I’m the one giving attitude right now?”

My teeth let go of my lower lip to sigh loudly before I grab my car keys on the table.

“Okay, you know what? I’m out.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again and decides to only lift his hand and let it fall to tell me I’m a huge ing disappointment as always and a coward for walking out of the conversation.

Of course, I couldn’t just walk out of there and forget we had even fought.

I stop in front of the door, probably biting my lips, and Jackson asks me to face him. He has his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on top of his joint hands. He stares at me, as if waiting for me to tell him why I am not out yet.

“By ‘good luck’, I meant ‘don’t get hurt’. I really meant it.”

The corners of his mouth curl up so slightly, it is almost a twitch. “I know.”

He holds my gaze without blinking, long enough for me lose track of my natural breathing rhythm, and I swear if it wasn’t for those eyes…

“What time Friday?”

The younger’s whole face lights up and he forces himself to prevent a smile from fully taking over his lips.

“2PM.”

“Pick me up at a quarter to, don’t be late.” I sigh before I turn away, mostly to hide my smile. What am I getting myself into?

*

            The protests have been going on for over a week now. The crowd seems to get bigger every day. It is peaceful for the most part, and tolerated by the police. They march, they sing, they dance, and they try to raise awareness online. The most radical act was a human barrage at the bridge and a few broken windows downtown. I know these gatherings are really nothing to worry about, I know I can trust Jackson, but deep down I cannot shake the fear away: the fabric of the bandana covering my nose and mouth brushes against my lips every time I speak, reminding me that my government doesn’t like people who speak, and therefore what we are doing is, no matter how we put it, purely illegal.

 “It’s gonna be fun!” he shouts. I can barely hear him over the noise.

“What?”

“It’s gonna be fun!”

Although I can’t see his mouth through the bandana, I know he is smiling. I smile back, but he doesn’t see it for sure.

He drags me through the crowd and I winced at how loud it is. Young people are chanting “Long live democracy!” among other words, lost in a cacophony of screams aimed nowhere. People are chatting, jumping, whistling and clapping. From where I am, I still can’t see the front of the crowd; I don’t know where it begins or where it ends. I am surrounded by people bumping into me, occasionally apologizing, but their faces are soon out of my peripheral vision as I am mostly looking at my own feet. Jackson suddenly stops and I almost bump into him. He looks around, half worried, half amused.

“I can’t find them.”

“Find who?”

“The group. I’m supposed to help them with something.”

“Something like what? What group?”

He doesn’t answer. I roll my eyes. Of course he didn’t bring me out here with a mask to have me learn the chants. He spots someone in the crowd and almost disappears for an instant, before he turns back and come fetch me like I am a lost child.

Jackson goes and greets a few members of the group with an excited handshake and a pat on the back like he has known these guys forever. A thin dude with silver hair seems to know him well. He stands sideways, his hands in his pockets, and talk through his half-face gas mask like he is at any kind of party, and I swear I can almost see his cocky smile under the gear.

“Are you lost?” a tall guy asks me.

“I’m with Jackson.”

He points to my friend who has yet to remember I am here. “That guy right there?”

I nod, and he laughs as he shakes his head. He opens his worn-out blazer to take out a flask and hands it to me.

“No thanks.”

“You’re gonna need it.”

“Why?”

“Because I assume it’s your first riot?” he claims before he takes a sip.

“This is not a riot.”

He chuckles, and before he can add anything, Jackson finally calls me over to introduce me.

The silver haired guy, who introduces himself as Bam, is in fact one of the people in charge of the radical operations. Yes, it is as scary as it sounds. He hands me and Jackson a walkie-talkie and quickly shows us how to use the location app. I tell them I am not too sure to understand what our role is, and he explains that we need to disperse and locate the police squads to avoid brushing against them. He insists on the importance of wearing a mask and a hoodie, and suggests I drink some liquor before I go on my own.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? We’re not getting drunk, it’s just to relax.” Jackson explains before he gulps down the transparent liquid from the bottle. I can’t hide my surprise as I frown.

“If your plan was not to get drunk, it’s probably too late.”

He coughs, and passes me the bottle with a smile. I hesitate, then I snatch the bottle from him and take a rather big sip, the liquid burning down my throat and awaking my gag reflex. I curse and I wince, stealing a laugh from him and his new friend.

“You have to take him out more often, man.” Bam tells Jackson.

“He’s more into weed.” he retorts as he throws an arm around my shoulder.

“Yeah, we can’t risk getting arrested with it though… So, Jack you check the stadium and your friend, the mall, we good?”

They all agree and they leave it at that, but I don’t like the idea of going there alone. My friend reassures me that it is safe, and that he would keep his phone close if anything.

I go around the crowd and head toward the mall. It is quieter outside since it is rather far from the main gathering. I stand on the side walk and wait a bit, unsure of what I am even waiting for. The sound of my walkie-talkie makes me jump. Jackson asks me if I’m okay, to which I respond that I am. Before I can add anything else, another guy tells us the metro is down, and that people around metro stations should be careful. The mall being connected to one, I decide to go down and check. I go down the escalator to find a normal looking station. I walk around a bit before I decide to update the group that it is dead over here. I bring the walkie-talkie to my mouth, but the sudden agitation downstairs stops me.

Curious, I decide to jump above the turnstile and head are downstairs. I arrive in front of the trains and I stop dead in my track when I hear boots running behind me. I rush to press myself against the wall to avoid the police brigade swarming the place. I notice the loudspeaker’s message of emergency when it changes to English. The sound of the alarm makes me jump, the lady on the intercom tells us to leave immediately, but I cannot move as I watch police men running after people to throw them on the ground with rage and handcuff them. People scream, women out of terror, men out of anger, and children cry. The train’s doors close, trapping people inside, before they open again, forced by the police, some of them hitting the train windows with their baton to yell at people to get the out.

“Mark. Are you there?”

Jackson’s voice from my walkie-talkie brings me back to my senses. I take it slowly, too focused on what is going on before me, and hold the button down to speak.

“I’m in the metro.”

“What? What’s all that noise, I can’t hear you.”

“I’m in- Holy !” I shout into my walkie-talkie.

A policeman points his pepper spray cylinder at civilians, one takes out an umbrella, the rest can only run away, only to bump into the police who has entered the train further ahead. I only have time to see a girl my age trying to run past them before she gets pepper-sprayed, the cylinder an inch from her face. The pain makes her step back and lose her balance, and she whines loudly as she holds her face between her hands.

“Mark! Mark, bud, you gotta get outta there right now!” Bam shouts through the walkie-talkie.

I can’t look away. Most of the police squad is now inside the train, ruthlessly spraying youngsters who are curled into a ball on the ground, trying to protect their face with their clothes and each other’s bodies, begging for them to stop. I can hear the sound of police batons hitting the wall and the ground followed by wails of pain and loud insults, but there is so much happening that I don’t know where to look.

“Wait wait wait the entrance is blocked, I-I can’t get to him!” I hear Jackson say.

“Mark, are you still downstairs?”

“There is police all around now!”

As I look down to my walkie-talkie, not really processing what it is saying, I notice that almost everyone outside of the train are either being handcuffed or being carried out by the police. More members of the anti-riot squad are coming from upstairs, and there are now more cops than civilians. At this point, I know that running will only attract unwanted attention to me, and my only way to get out is to keep it as low as possible. I turn off my walkie-talkie, hide it inside my pants, and take off my mask to look like a regular guy trying to ride the metro. I pull my phone out of my pocket to text Jackson about my intention of waiting for things to calm down, but I drop it when a police man grabs me by the arm and drags me all the way to where civilians who are obviously not protesters are sitting on the ground. He throws me there as he mumbles something with annoyance and goes back upstairs.

I probably stayed there for over an hour before they let us all out.

When I exit the mall through the main entrance, it is getting dark. As soon as I deem myself far enough from any armed force, I take the walkie-talkie out of my boxers and turn it back on to ask the group where they are. I jump and I curse under my breath when I hear my best friend answering without missing a beat, practically shouting in the damn radio.

“Mark! We’re outside the Walmart entrance, where are you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

I walk around the mall and look around to find Jackson in the crowd that formed around the entrance. I spot him from afar when he says my name, jogging toward me. He grabs the back of my neck and the middle of my back to pull me closer in his tight hug before I can say anything.

“Jesus, Mark, are you okay? Did you get sprayed, are you hurt?”

“No, I’m-“

He grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me back to take a better look at me.

“W-what happened down there? What the hell were you thinking? I-I texted you! So many times.”

            “I know, I know, calm down. I lost my phone, okay? I’m fine.”

            “I was mad worried! You just… stopped answering, and… What’s funny?”

            I don’t know why, but I just started laughing. Not at him, of course not. Maybe out of fatigue, or upon the realization of how ed up it all is.

            “What… what were the odds? I had a mask and , they never saw me.”

            He sighs, unable to contain his smile either. “I never thought I’d say this, but I guess being quiet has its advantages.”

            “Right?”

            We both finish laughing, and exhale loudly. It’s over, and we’re okay. The younger hesitates, but ends up inviting me to have a drink with the group.

            “Unless you feel like resting, which… I would understand.”

            I scoff before I throw an arm around his shoulder. “These guys, they knew what they were talking ‘bout when they said I’d need the vodka, huh?”

*

            We didn’t see the point of going to a bar, as the crowd had taken over downtown by the time it was dark. We found a quieter spot in an alley behind a convenience store and sat there to drink. The two guys I have met earlier are much friendlier after a few beers, and much less intimidating without their mask and hoodie. We talked of today’s events, future plans for the movement, and overall we just got to know each other a bit more. By the time the mob reached our area, I could barely walk.

            “Maybe we should move,” the tall guy suggested.

            “Good luck moving him.”

            She is talking about me, lying on the ground, my head on Jackson’s lap. I am looking at the sky and I could not care less about their conversation at this point. My friend looks down, laughs at me, and pats my cheek to have me open my eyes more.

            “Wake up, snow white, we gotta go.”

            The noises of police cars approaching and distant chanting turn into a blur, and I am actually surprised to see myself sober enough to take in Jackson’s beauty. His hair is a bit messy, a bit sweaty, unmoved by the motion of his head shaking slowly from left to right as he smirks in delighted amusement. I blink, slowly, but he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t urge me to move, and he lets me admire him despite the darkness, a darkness which does not penetrate him, it never did. A car passes behind him and the car lights shine at the back of his head, he doesn’t notice but I do and it makes me squint begrudgingly. For a second, the light drew his nose, from between his eyebrows all the way down to the turned-up tip; it drew his lips, the skin peeling off from the lower lip that he struggles to keep moist by constantly it, the light splashed onto his high cheekbones tinted with an alcoholic pink, shone in his eyes like little galaxies, but did not expose his sharp jaw-line and its imperfections, its acne scars, and his facial hair he will be shaving off tomorrow, he swears, and its skin rough by the numerous times he scratches it during a day: he does that when he is stressed. I am actually surprised, to see myself sober enough not to kiss him.

            “Pretty sure you meant… sleeping beauty.” I whisper. He turns around to look at the crowd approaching behind him.

“Whatevs princess, get your up.”

            I roll my eyes and I grunt before I resign myself to sit straighter. The younger holds out his hand to help me up, and laughs at how I stumble on my two feet. Bam speaks as he throws something at me that I was supposed to catch, but obviously didn’t. The tall guy – I think his name is Gyeom – picks it up for me, and explains I will need this to damage cameras. I don’t quite get it. It’s too late to get it. And I’m too drunk.

            He points behind me, and I turn slowly to see the mob, all dressed in reflective jackets and full-face gas masks, playing with the green lasers as they walk. I notice some of them are carrying street cones, wood planks, and broken street signs.

            “What are they doing?”

            “They’re blocking the next corner. Guys, we should go and help.” Bam declares before he puts his phone back in his pocket.

            Jackson looks at the group heading toward the mob, looks at me, and looks at the group again while his lip. I shake my head, and I sit back down on the side walk.

            “I’ll just lie there and… wait to sober up.”

            “Are you sure?”

            I move my head up, and down, up, and down, and I let my body fall heavily on the grass. The younger giggles.

            “This is exactly why I would get drunk before you in high school.”

            “So you can flirt with trees?” I say, my eyes closed.

            “That was one time, and I was on hash.” he declares, probably trying hard to keep his serious face.

            “Jackson?”

            “Yes?”

            “I love you.”

            I open one eye to see his reaction. He throws his hand dramatically on his heart and makes a silly face, pretending something hit it right there. He starts to walk backward, and his steps are not exactly straight.

            “Love you too, bro. Keep your walkie-talkie on!” he tells me before he turns around to jog happily to his new friends.

            I close my eyes back again, and I probably fall asleep, but not deep enough to be sure. After a while, I am shaken up by Jackson again, whose face is much redder now, and the loud EDM music confuses me a little.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Come with me!”

            He grabs my hand without asking and pulls me up, almost losing his balance in his movement. He pulls me toward the group, walking along the shops to avoid mixing with the crowd, and brings me where the music is louder, where the air is hotter, where people are merrier. Further down the street, an anti-riot squad is watching us, us, whose half is probably on drugs, the other half tipsy or wasted like me, dancing around the improvised barrage on fire. I look at my friend in disbelief as he dances with a stranger like his drunken would when we were in high school, and ultimately join him on the dance floor.

*

            Protesting is our routine now. After two months of on-going political tension, the city is practically shut-down. We attend protests during the day, riots during the night, and we rotate our sleep schedule like working shifts. My workplace has been burned to the ground anyway, and my university is a war zone. It doesn’t take much for to go down, and people just generally become hostile as they forget why they are here struggling in the first place. Some days are calmer than others, but today, today seems especially harsh on all of us.

            It is almost noon, and it is stupidly hot. I stand on the light grey plaza of some science university; the bricks under my feet reflect the heat like a mirror reflects light, and I can feel my back soaking my shirt with sweat. Following the vandalism of the press agencies last night, many metro stations were out of operation, forcing us to rally around the university campus. We spent the morning blocking the roads and slashing car tires, so that police cars would not get to us too quickly. We threw bricks on the road from a viaduct to stop any vehicle coming our way, causing the anti-riot squad to surround the campus. They took out their warning signs, threatening to shoot tear-gas if we don’t disperse, but we won’t budge. This has become our fortress. The students inside managed to hack the computer to use them for mass communications. They trashed the place and took everything useful, everything that could be turned into a weapon or a protection. Outside, they set security checks: they won’t let anyone who is not a radical protester in. They got equipment delivered: goggles, umbrellas, gas masks, helmets, gloves, anything to minimise the injuries. We are all busy with something, it gives us a sense of purpose, and while most of our friends are out and about to buy groceries and supplies, Bam and I watch the cops letting a truck get through in the alley where they are watching us building a wall with broken pavement.

            “When do you think they’ll burst in?” I ask him.

            “They won’t. We’re armed to the teeth with our bombs.” He pauses, his look daggers at them, and he adds in a mumble: “They wouldn’t dare.”

            “Should we go get full-face masks?”

            He shakes his head, seeming almost annoyed with the idea. I think they are pretty close from us for a squad with now, two trucks. He seems to notice, because he stops, sighs, and takes out his radio to ask others if they were able to come in through the security checks. After a few seconds of no answer, he asks again in a more annoyed tone.

            “No, there’s press and police over there. We’re trying to find a way in from the viaduct.”

            Bam’s eyes wander as he thinks. “That won’t do. Maybe try our side? From the alley.”

            “There are too many cops on our side, they’ll get arrested.” I tell him, only to get shushed.

            After a while of no update, he inquires them again until Gyeom answers:

            “We’re good: someone let us in from the park.”

            “The park? I thought they had put barbered wire there.” I say, almost to myself this time, as I wipe my sweaty forehead with the hem of my t-shirt.

            Bam shrugs and slides the walkie-talkie back in his pocket. I crouch down, panting like a dog despite minimal effort, and he makes a step forward to get back to work, but stops when he hears a police siren going off from the side of the campus where the park is, followed by a megaphone message I can’t quite understand.

            “Yup, they saw them.” Bam sighs and takes his radio again. “What’s going on over there?”

            A girl answers, but the radio buzzes when we are splashed by a considerable amount of water coming from the other side of the barricade. I throw my arms above my head out of reflex, and the violence of the water pressure makes Bam lose his balance. It takes me a few seconds to breathe, wipe my face, and register the stingy feeling on my exposed skin.

            “What the… Ouch! They ing dyed us!” yells the other as he touches his forehead and looks down at his hand, now all covered in blue.

            A megaphone closer to us orders us to disperse immediately, declaring that every single person on the campus would get arrested if we don’t. I stand up, resolute to get as far away as possible from the trucks before I get splashed a second time. But Bam does not have the same idea.

            “Where are you going?”

            “I’m going to bomb them sons of es!”

            “Bam, wait!”

            I run after him who has almost reached the box full of Molotov cocktails ready to be thrown. I grab him by the arm to turn him around. He swears in a husky voice, his eyes shooting at me, and I apologise for touching his sensitive skin. My own is red under the dye and swells: the pain reminds me of the one my scalp went through when Jackson and I thought it would be fun to bleach our hair at home a few years ago.

            “What do you want?”

            “That’s not what we’re here for.”

            He sneers. “Well if you’re gonna stand here looking like a , be my guest, but that’s not how I do it.”

            He turns around to grab a bottle, but I run to place myself between him and the box. He orders me to get out of his way as he tries to push me, but I am quicker and I slap his arms by accident, making him shout in pain. This time, I don’t say sorry. He exhales loudly, and looks around me as if looking for something. He raises his eyebrows for a millisecond and bends over to grab a bow and arrows he found in a pile of gear behind me. I try to snatch it from him, but he is faster.

            “They are people too! You could kill them with that!”

            He spins so quick that I bump into him. “Do you know how many times I went to the hospital because of them? Do you?”

            He pushes me with all his strength and I almost fall on my . He gets closer to me and shoves the arrow under my neck. I push it away, but he places it back there. I grab him by the collar and whisper with anger:

            “If you think I’ll let you hurt anyone, you’ve got another thing comin’.”

            “Oh, because you think I’m scared of es like you?”

            He stops and narrows his eyes when he sees our friends behind me. I hear them coming running, urging us to let go of each other. I release my grip on Bam and he drops the arrow. When he notices I am covered in blue, Jackson runs around and asks where to find water, and gestures me to follow him inside. He doesn’t say anything on our way, but in the calmer area around the water hose, he asks me what the beef with Bam is. I choose not to answer as he waters my whole body, knowing the esteem my friend has for the other.

            “Gosh, what’s in this water? It’s not coming off.” he mutters.

            He takes my wrist to lift my forearm and rub it hard, but I take my arm back with a growl by reflex. His eyes widen in concern: he didn’t know it was painful. He gently cups my face with his hands, and brushes my wet bangs away from my eyes. My heart beats so loud that my rib cage is trembling.

            “Your eyes are red,” he breathes. He locks his eyes into mine for several, long seconds, before they trail off to the rest of my face as he concludes: “This could be dangerous if we don’t get rid of it.”

            “Yo love birds, you’re gonna need this!” Bam says as he throws a half-empty bottle of cooking oil at us, forcing Jackson to let go of my face to catch it. He has his shirt dripping blue drops in his hands and is wearing full face protection. My best friend looks at the bottle with confusion, and one of Bam’s friends comes to help. She takes the bottle of oil and the bottle of water from Jackson’s hand.

            “We don’t have a lot: where does it hurt the most?”

            “My arms. And my knees.”

            Lisa looks down at my knees, and agrees that my pants are soaked.

            “You should take off your clothes; it will be bright blue when it dries.”

            The sound of Jackson’s snapback hitting the ground catch my eye, and I blink several times in surprise as I see him getting undressed.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Take my clothes, I don’t mind.”

            I take off my shirt, unsure if I should really let him wear my toxic clothes, but he insists as he helps Lisa rub my chest and my arms with oil. The rubbing burns a little, but the dye does come off. When Jackson proceeds to take off his jeans, I have to stop him, and to stop myself from laughing.

            “We don’t have to trade pants, it’s okay.”

            “No, you said your knees hurt. It mustn’t dry on your skin.”

            “Gee Jack, this is not a Walk.”

            “Shut up, Bam.”

            I know I am blushing as he passes his pants over. I can’t help it. I sigh before I take mine off, and we trade. He puts his hat back on, but doesn’t seem to care about his shirt. Gyeom rolls his eyes and gives him his black hoodie. I don’t even know how he managed to spend the day with that personal oven on him.

            We barely have time to finish up washing the dye off my face when we hear people shouting close to the building entrance. Students run past us with their face deformed by fear, and Gyeom grabs one of them to ask what is happening.

            “They’ve got in, we gotta block the door!”

            “In where?”

            The student frees his arm from him and keeps running upstairs. The group doesn’t even have to exchange a look to decide to run to the classrooms and grab chairs upstairs to block the building entrance. They start running, but Jackson stands there and let his head fall backward in an annoyed groan.

            “Can’t we have one ing minute without risking our lives?”

            Despite the urgency of the situation, I cannot hide my laughter at the younger’s comment. Seeing me laugh, he can’t contain his smile.

            “It’s not funny! Come on!” he says as he nods at me to run upstairs with him.

            The protesters’ quick reaction fixed the problem of the open doors quickly. We used chairs, umbrellas, and furniture to block every entrance to the building, locking us in by the same mean. We are firm in our decision to stay, and found ways to attack from inside the university by throwing bombs from the roof and the small area between the edifice and the imposing fence surrounding it.

            It is getting dark, and both sides started to back down and fire less often. Since we didn’t have proper gear, and especially since my hair was covered in blue still, Bam asked us to watch the cops’ movements. I chose to stay on a balcony, a few floors under the roof, to avoid being the target of tear-gas canisters.

            “How is it on your side?” Jackson asks through the walkie-talkie.

            “Quiet. Maybe even done for the night.”

            “I wouldn’t count on that. They’re yelling at each other over here.”

            “Yelling? Where are you?”

            Jackson told me he would help making petrol bombs near the inside pool, but he’s obviously somewhere else if he can hear police men shouting. “Outside.”

I curse under my breath and hesitate before I decide to leave my spot and head downstairs to find my friend outside. The odour of beer and gasoline hits me: I adjust my shabby surgical face mask on top of my nose as if it would block the smell. I go over a pile of brick and go out. They haven’t shot in a while. That is what I tell myself for reassurance when I hear riot gun being shot.

I clench my fist around my walkie-talkie I am still holding and start running. They can’t be shooting us for real, not again. If they continue, all hell will break loose.

 “Jackson where are you?”

“Avenue side, I’m fine.”  The younger replies, too calmly for the situation.

‘Damn it, Jackson’ I think to myself: why did he get so close with only face mask and an umbrella? Why am I getting so close with only a mask for decoration? I am already pissed at his recklessness, but seeing him lining up bottles of Molotov cocktails with two other guys twists my stomach.  

“What do you think you’re doing? We’re not front-liners!”

“It’s okay, I got this.”

I rush to him to grab his arm and pull him away from his material. He yells in shock and I take the bottle from him to carefully put in on the ground before I face him again.

“Don’t try to be a hero, you don’t have proper gear!”

“No one does, Mark! It’s a riot!”

I pull my mask down, because I don’t seem to make myself clear enough. “That doesn’t mean you get to be the one to…”

The sound of a riot gun interrupts me. I spin to see where the tear-gas grenade comes from, but I don’t see it until it lands a meter from where I stand. I barely have time to say ‘’ before the cloud of white mist wraps me and I feel like a horse kicks me in the chest.

“Don’t breathe! Don’t brea-” Jackson coughs, breathes, and groans loudly. He grabs me by the forearm and drags me away, but we both struggle to move as we deal with our pain.

Keeping my eyes open feels like my retina is over a flame, so I can’t help but keep my eyes shut. I blink fast, praying for the tears to wash away the gas, but the movement of my eyelid letting the wind in makes everything worse. The air scrapes the inside of my trachea like I am breathing razor blades, and my whole face, hands and neck itch like rubbing alcohol on an open wound. I can’t breathe, I don’t know how to anymore, and pain is hitting me from so many angles at once that I don’t know where to focus. I force my eyes open a bit when I feel the burn of my tears on my cheeks, and I push my mask back up on my nose as if it was going to do anything but intensify the ache of my skin.

My mask is damp with mucus and my eyes are in a constant state of wateriness. I have no idea where I am, where Jackson is, and where I am heading when two strangers in full gear run to me with water. One of them orders me to bend over and to turn my head sideways as she pours the water over my face. I curse at her and growl in pain, and she has to ask me to get my back together.

“It’s almost over, stop whining.”

“Where’s my friend?”

“He’s with my friend; we gotta get you away from the gas.”

She grabs me by the shoulders and leads me back inside. As I clumsily go over the improvised barricade at the entrance, my forearm grazes on something, and the pain of the scratch on my abused skin is so sudden and intense that I let out a scream of pain. As the girl takes my hand to help my blind go over the furniture, she pulls my arm towards her and turns it slightly from side to side.

“, your arm…”

I blink, again and again, to cry the blur out, but all I see on my forearm is bright red skin with some even darker spots.

“Okay, go to the washroom and run it under cold water if they haven’t turned it off yet, I’ll find a paramedic.”

She runs off, and I stand there to breathe in, trying to manage the pain of my blazing arms, but ending up coughing so much it is almost ridiculous. I almost rub my eyes, but stop myself just in time, and my dumb fingers unconsciously make their way on the top of my wrist to scratch it like I am a masochist. The effect of one scratch is poignant, the trail left by my nails glows in anguish as if branded, and I force my feet forward to run to the nearest bathroom, praying God that the water is cold.

I turn on the faucet. A drop falls, another one, but nothing more. And I just start crying: not because of the tear-gas this time, just plain old pathetic weeps.

Jackson stumbles in, almost walking into the door frame, taking in shallow breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut and open them again, letting one tear escape as he wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand.

“Mark?”

I stutter breathe and close my eyes to repress the cough, but it comes out anyway and chokes me. He approaches, whispering that it’s okay, and I know I will be, but I am not. I am suffering.

“There’s no w-water. I c-can’t breathe. And…”

“I know, it won’t last long.” He gets interrupted by his own throat hurting, and he swallows a lump as he winces and holds his neck.

I lift my trembling hands, and see blisters are forming on top of them upon closer look. “My arms…”

            “Holy .” He whispers in shock before he throws himself at every faucet, trying to turn them on one by one.

            “There’s… no water.”

            The girl who helped me get inside comes back with a first-aid worker. Although she tries to hide it, the paramedic is as shocked as we were by the burns. She orders me to carefully take off my shirt and to keep my arms above the sink. She pours saline water on the terrible looking injury and covers it with gauzes, but she admits I should go to the hospital. Jackson stops biting his fingernails right away, ready to go.

            “You can’t go out; the police arrest everyone coming out of the building. You won’t make it to the hospital.”

            “But she said he needs treatment! They won’t let people die here!”

            “He won’t die. They won’t let you out unless he’s bleeding out or something. We’re locked-up.”

            I sigh in discouragement — because seriously, what else could go wrong? — and let my arms drop, but the paramedic catch them before they can touch my pants. I must not let them touch my pants. Jackson argues with the other girl until he comes to realization that we are screwed. She tells us there might be some food left upstairs, but she can’t guarantee, and walks out with the paramedic.

            I let myself slide down the wall, and let my arms rest on my knees. Screw everything. My friend sits next to me in silence and stares at the void, occasionally blinking at the sounds of glass bottles shattering and people cheering outside. 

            “I’m sorry I got you through this.” he whispers, his head low.

            “Well, I’m sorry we were born in this hole of a country,” I answer before I yawn, rub my eyes, and immediately regret it. “Man, their chemicals hurt like a .”

            I see the corners of his mouth struggling not to creep up into a smile, and I shake my head with a smirk at the joke he is about to crack.

            “What?”

            “It’s not funny, I mean, I shouldn’t laugh. But out of all the smoke-grenades they shot, it had to land… Right. There.” He emphasises his words with hand gestures, and I cannot help but smile more and let my head hit the wall.

            “And when they threw that blue water or whatever the it was, which they did only once… I had to be there.”

            “Yo… today.” he declares lazily.

            “ today indeed.”

            “Mark?”

            “Yeah?”

            He hesitates, but ultimately shakes his head and look down.

            “Forget it.”

*

            It wasn’t that bad… at first.

For a few days, the war around the building stopped, and the students were tired but hopeful. We used the time on lock-down to discuss strategies, share stories and laugh a bit at how ridiculous it was. But we all soon realised that the cops had no plan of letting us out, that we had no electricity and no water, and that the floor was freaking cold at night. The press was allowed in, journalists from all over the world but from our own country, and the whole world wide web was probably talking about us trapped like insects under a glass, waiting to die, because that is what it felt like after an entire week. Fortunately, my chemical burns were merely a bad sun burn now, but the sweat of long summer days without A/C did not help the itchiness. We brought in food and medical supplies, but it was not always enough, and I could feel the hunger in my throat, in my mouth. I almost drooled, when Jackson mentioned pizza that one in too many nights we couldn’t sleep, as we lay next to each other in an empty class room, staring at the ceiling.

“So: a hot shower, or pizza?”

I make a ‘tsk’ sound, seriously debating whether one meal would feel better than a long, boiling hot shower.

“What kind of pizza is it? Gotta think about everything.”

“Any kind. Pizza is pizza, man.” he answers with a smile in his voice.

I turn my head to look at him, dead serious. “No, but is it with pineapple though? That changes it all.”

“Damn, you’re right.” He looks at me, and hesitates before he makes his mind: “Okay. Pineapple pizza, or hot shower.”

“Ugh, the shower.”

“Really?” Jackson exclaims.

“I can’t sacrifice a shower for pineapple pizza, that’s nasty.” 

I roll on my side and lay my head on my arm. My own body odour, a mix of sweat and dry paint, but mostly sweat, fills my nostrils, but Jackson smells a bit different, a bit more of himself, as his deodorant is stronger and obviously lasts longer than mine.

“Okay, I got another one. Ready?”

I hum softly. If it wasn’t for the cold, I would be asleep by now: it’s fascinating how long one’s body can go without sleeping, and then refuse to sleep just because one’s balls are freezing.

“Your bed. Or any food you’d like.”

I take a few seconds to process his words. I groan. “These are getting harder and harder, and my brain is fried.”

“You can just tell me to shut up, you know.”

“Oh you’re not what’s keeping me awake. Gimme a blanket and I’m gone.”

He rolls over, and throw an arm and leg around my body, pulling me closer. “I’ll be your blanket.” he says in a yawn.

My eyes widen, but I don’t push him away. His warmth is soothing. I close my eyes, and nuzzle in the crook of his neck, and I can feel him shiver when I breathe out. Jackson breaks the silence:

“That probably looks really gay.” he states before he laughs in his usual light-hearted, high-pitch giggle.

“Yup.”

“Do you care?”

He looks down, and I look up. My mouth is so close to his chin, I could pucker my lips and peck him. “No.”

“Cool.” he sighs, and squeezes me a bit tighter.

And for a second, for a second I think: I’m so in love with the boy, it is nauseating. But I can’t bring myself to care right now. Right now feels too good.

*

Despite being somewhat comfortable for once, I slept only a few hours that night, and waking up in a pool of sweat was enough to remind me of the interminable and boring day ahead. We tried occupying our days and our thoughts by making extra of everything, trying to be better protesters, stronger opponents, but the truth is that the lock-down was life out of us, and that our spirit, the only thing keeping us together at this point, was almost completely extinguished. The word started to spread: we had to get out.

“So there’s the sewage system,” Bam explains as he draws on the ground using spray paint. “Or escaping through the roof and running on the viaduct at night. But that’s more dangerous, and risky.”

“What if we jump off the footbridge? Too high?”

“Too obvious. People already got caught that way.”

“No, I mean…” Lisa paces around the five of us, crouched down around the drawing. “If we go further, and like… use a rope or something strong enough to hold us as we go down on the road.”

Bam rubs his eye, and shakes himself up. “Yeah, but we don’t have that…”

“Look, I heard people talk the other day. A bunch of them plans on just walking out, we can use it as a diversion.” I suggest.

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they’re all ing tired of this place.” Jackson grunts, holding his forehead between his hands. “Jail can’t be that bad at this point.”

“I vote the sewers.” Bam sighs as he drops the spray paint can and let it roll away.

Lisa agrees, and Jackson agrees with my idea. We all turn to Gyeom, who hasn’t said anything yet.

“I guess, if we run fast enough… we don’t even know where the sewage system will lead us.”

“Alright fellas, we’ll take the easy way out and meet again in prison, how ‘bout that?”

“Bam, come on.”

Bam stands up and throws out a peace sign as he walks away, without looking back. That’s how we decided that we would run away tonight, but honestly, I am not even sure I can run that fast.  I am too worn-out, too depressed, but mostly, way, way too tired.

Bam came back in time for our poorly planned escape. The few hundred students left in the building walked out in masses through the front door, attracting cops and journalists like insects around a piece of candy. We are anxious, and I personally could say my sleep deprivation has turned my mental state into something close to tipsiness: I feel numb; my eyelid won’t drop as often because they are constantly forced open, my neck is sore and my back feels like it has been broken and repaired with negligence. I have never seen Jackson so lifeless, the bags under his eyes so dark and deep no amount of light could fill the gap, his cheeks hollow and dull, colourless. His hair has gotten greasy enough for him to tie it in a tiny man bun after day four. He would look funny if he were anywhere else, but he is here, rotting as I am, and he looks pitiful. I probably do too, with my greenish bleached hair and my pale, but definitely visible moustache.

“Okay, they started walking out. There are some people on the footbridge also.” Lisa states.

“Guys, if we get arrested, I mean, when we get arrested…”

“Could you not be so negative? For a change.” My friend barks.  

I don’t even have to look at him for my hand to find Jackson’s. He sighs, squeezes it and backs off. Bam gives him the dirty look, but ignores his remark. “Find someone with a camera and shout your name. They might not let us call anyone once we’re in.”

“But it’s the law.”

His head drops slightly as he sighs, as if my answer was disappointing. “We wouldn’t be here if there were still laws.”

“I think we’re good now. I don’t see anybody.” Gyeom tells us after he looked out the window.

We have our masks on and our part of the building is empty enough: it’s time to run. So we ran, as if our life depended on it. It kind of did.

I run, and I think to myself that I shouldn’t have forgotten how hot it is under the sun, but I keep running, and breathing is not comfortable. The mask doesn’t change anything; in fact, it prevents me from take deep breaths as I sprint. I see some cops running our way, but not many, and for a second I think I can avoid them by turning sideways, but that idea was a bad one: I take a split second to look back at my friend, and run into a policeman, my face hitting his helmet like it was concrete and my body being tackled like we were in the Super Bowl. My upper back hits the ground first, and I feel a discharge of pain all the way to my head which hasn’t hit the ground yet: when it did, trust me, I knew it. For a second all I see is black. And the next, my face is on the asphalt, my cheek scrapping the ground hard enough to bleed, and one of my wrists gets cuffed soon to be linked with the other.

“Easy, easy! Ouch! What the ?”

“Shut up! You have the right to remain silent!”

He presses his knee on my spine and puts all his weight on it. He locks the handcuffs and tighten the around my wrists, the metal scraping my bone and my burned skin. 

“You’re hurting me!”

He pats my jeans pockets, but doesn’t find anything there. “Where’s your phone?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Where is it?” he insists, pulling my hair to force my head to straighten.

“I told you I don’t have one! I lost it!”

The cop pulls me up by the chain of my handcuffs without a warning, and the muscles of my shoulders almost tear. He squeezes my arm and drags me along, and I feel a liquid running down the back of my neck. My head is throbbing. As we walk, I catch a glimpse of Jackson trying to free himself from two policemen and another one running to help. He manages to get up and run a few steps before he is thrown on the ground again. When I see one of the cops flick out a baton in a slick hand movement, I don’t think twice before running towards my best friend screaming his name. His eyes lock with mine, gleaming with fear, before the policeman swings his baton and hit him in the face, making him scream in pain. I am grabbed again and pulled by the elbow, more forcefully this time, but I let myself be dragged away. I watch Jackson getting handcuffed until I don’t see him anymore for being thrown into a police van filled with students.

We hear nothing but our breathing, when a distant scream is heard from outside. I look up, hoping to see Jackson being thrown in, hoping he’s okay, but the scream gets closer and it’s too high-pitched: it must be female. The door opens, the light blinds me before I distinguish two officers carrying Lisa, each holding one arm, as she keeps kicking as much as she can, trashing around, and calling them names, her face wet and her eyes squeezed-shut.

“Yeah, she bit me!” one of them says before they count to three and hurl her like a trash bag in a dumpster.

“Motherers I will sue you! God damn it!” she shouts before she groans loudly in pain.

“Lisa are you hurt?”

“They ing pepper sprayed me! Son of a !”

She keeps swearing, and groaning, and cursing the police, but I can’t focus as she speaks: Jackson doesn’t get in the vehicle before it drives off to the police station. And I have a massive headache.  

I haven’t notice how dizzy I was until we walked into the police station. The artificial light strikes me, and if I wasn’t being escorted, I probably would have had to sit down to swallow down my queasiness. I jump when the guy behind me in line whispers to my ear:

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Your head. Do you need a doctor?”

I try to bring my hand to the back of my head, where it stings, but I am stopped by the handcuffs.

“Is it that bad?”

“Keep quiet!” a police man orders.

We are all lead to a common cell and are informed that someone would come for us as we are getting our handcuffs removed. I don’t care. I just want to know if Jackson is okay, and I want to sleep. I’m not sure how it happened, but before I knew it I slept, and I woke up drooling on Lisa’s shoulder.

I open my eyes as I heave a sigh, and I lock eyes with Bam sitting across me. He has his head rested against the wall and his legs wide spread, taking two spots rather than one on the cramped bench. His lower lip is split open, dry blood on the corner of his mouth, and a bruise is forming under his eye. He holds my stare until he designates the person next to me with his chin. My heart fills with warmth when I see that this person is Jackson, sleeping with his head hanging low. Bam slides a bit off the bench to reach for him and kick him with his leg.

“Don’t wake him-” Too late.

He jumps and lifts his head, looking disoriented, and smiles when he sees me. I can’t hide my shock upon seeing he has a dressing on his forehead.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

“Your face…”

“I know, it’s okay, it’s been taken care of. How’s your head? A guy told me you were injured.”

My head. I had forgotten about my head. I bring my hand to the back of my head, and my eyes widen as I feel the wound amidst my hair sticky with dry blood. The younger places his fingers on my jaw to have me turn my head.

“That’s a lot of blood. Did you get checked for that?” he asks as he runs his fingers through my hair.

“No. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” I pause and look down on the red circle around my wrist. I look up to Jackson, then Bam, who is still staring at me. “What’s gonna happen to us?”

No one answers. Probably because no one knows for sure.

“By the way, where’s Gyeom?”

“Most likely dead.” Bam answers without missing a beat.

Jackson raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “You are such mood killer.”

“That’s what she said.” he shrugs.  

My friend turns to me and points at him. He opens his mouth, but chooses not to say anything. I know what he means.

“A guy at the hospital told me they’d let us out on bail after one, or two days.” he tells me softly. “Then we can put it all behind us and go back to our lives.”

I nod, process the words, and pucker my eyebrows. “What do you mean, ‘go back to our lives’?”

He looks at me in the eyes, seeming confused.

“You weren’t planning on going back to the streets, were you?”

“Not you?”

He squints a little and his lips before he turns his gaze away. The younger scratches his jaw, and vaguely gestures at his dressing.

“We’re injured, and… we’re facing ten years of prison if they don’t drop the charges.” He breathes in deeply as I suddenly feel selfish.  

“But we were prepared for that. That’s why you dragged me into this mess in the first place.”

“I didn’t drag you into anything, Mark.” He snaps and fixes me with his eyes. “You’re a big boy.”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea.” I mumble, playing with my fingers, to which he responds with a louder and firmer voice:

“Now you’re just being childish.”

I look up to hold his stare, but it penetrates me, and I don’t want to fight, but I don’t feel like backing down like I always do. I am tired; for having spent the last week on the ground of what used to be a gymnasium yes, but also tired of his anger issues and his tendency to jump to conclusions all the damn time.

“What’s going on?” Lisa interrupts as she finally awakens.

“Jack’s giving up on the country.” Bam answers.

“I’m not giving up on anything; I just don’t wanna die there.”

“We’ll wear more protection, we won’t…”

Lisa yawns as she reaches to tap Jackson’s arm for attention, interrupting me. “Seriously Jackson, I get where you’re coming from, I do, but really you gotta get your back together. You’ll just look like a coward.”

I slowly sink into the wall as I let the three of them argue with more and more bitterness in their speech. When I get over myself and notice that my friend is clearly done with the ordeal, I sit straighter to break into the conversation.

“Guys, guys, if he doesn’t wanna go, so be it. One less or one more, what is it gonna change?”

They all turn to me. I look at them one by one, and when my eyes fall on Jackson’s, my heart cracks a little.

“I-I don’t mean that-”

“Shut up.” he exhales. He lets his back hit the wall and crosses his arm, dejection clouding his face that he tries to bury into his hoodie. We all hang there in an awkward silence, and when I dare land my gaze on him again, he swiftly wipes his cheek with the palm of his hand.

“Jackson, I’m sorry…” I whisper and I place my hand on top of his to be immediately rejected.

The night his long and quiet, but Jackson and I can’t seem to fall back asleep. For a long time, he dares not to look at me, but every time I look at him, I have the small hope that he finally does, as if I am waiting for this as a sign that we’re okay, that if I initiate the conversation, he won’t shut me down. The sound of his low voice kind of startles me.

“Just say what you have to say. I’m stuck here with you.” He doesn’t look at me.

“I don’t know what to say. I didn’t wanna hurt you, that’s all.”

“You didn’t,” he sighs as he rubs his face. “I’m just exhausted.”

“Me too.”

The truth is, I am dead on my feet, physically and mentally, and the idea of only crossing the near war zone city to get home is bothersome. And deep down, I know I just want to go back to get a sense of revenge, of utility, for myself and for him, for Lisa who still struggles to manage her runny nose, and even for Bam’s black eye. I wish he knew I don’t want to invalidate his feelings or his injury, at least that is not what I am trying to do, by avoiding the confrontation: but I am considering going without him, although it bothers me, and I don’t know how to tell him. I wish I didn’t have to deal with any of it, as I know I will be dealing with a lot of when the investigators open my file.

I had barely the time to close my eyes when the stentorian voice of an officer makes me jolt on my seat. The discomfort of the loudness forces me out of my shallow sleep and I have to hold my forehead and blink several times to adjust to such an abrupt awakening.

“Which one of you is Jackson Wang?”

I have to elbow him to wake him up. He grunts, but he sits straighter when he hears his name being called again. He puts his hand on my thigh as he asks the officer warily why he is being summoned, and I should not care so much about his hand rather than the officer’s declaration that he is being released on bail, effective immediately. He turns to me as if looking for approval. I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to tell him to leave, but Bam is faster than me: he hits Jackson’s knee to catch his attention and urges him to get out and find out if Gyeom is in jail or not. My friend stands up, still unsure, but ultimately follows the officer. He looks back to fix on me, and before he is too far to be heard, he shouts:

“I’ll get you outta here.”

*

Jackson did not come back for me, but he sent my parents to pick me up.

My parents didn’t know I was protesting for the last two months, and although I like to believe they were relieved to find me safe and sound, I knew better than to expect a heartbreaking scene of parents finding their child after he hadn’t come home in over a week. My mom would have hugged me, but my dad was just unimpressed. When the officer let me go and join my mom in the waiting room, I felt like a kid walking out of the principal’s office. She looks at me up and down, and I know she wants to say what her eyes are screaming, but simply looks down and whispers pitifully: “Your father is waiting in the car. Let’s go.”

My father wouldn’t look at me, until I broke the heavy quietness to advise my mom that the road she is about to take is blocked somewhere in the middle, and that she would have to turn around. My dad’s gaze in the rear mirror is enough to understand that what he is about to say is not going to be pretty.

“You know that because you’re the one who blocked it?”

I have to bite my tongue not to be rude.

“Mark.”

“I don’t know, I can’t remember every road I’ve blocked,” I snap.

“And you really thought that would make things better? That being a thug would restore democracy?”

“A thug?” I scoff. “Come on…”

“I’m not done.” He finally turns to face me, but I can’t look at him in the eye. “What in the world were you thinking? You thought that this was some game, that you could trash a university with your friends and run away like nothing happened? Do you know how much it cost to get you out and how much it will cost to get you a lawyer, and…”

“Well if you’re being so pissy about it maybe you should’ve left me there, I didn’t ask for anything.” I mumble almost to myself.

I lay my head on the head rest slowly to avoid putting pressure right on the wound. I just really want an aspirin right now, but my father keeps speaking even louder. I ask him to tone it down, and he exhales loudly, but I can’t bring myself to look. I have to hold my forehead and breathe in and out. The throbbing feeling just won’t go away, it’s like my brain is forcing its way out of my skull, and I must close my eyes and tell myself that I’ll be fine. We’re almost home.

A part of me wants him to care a bit more. A part of me wants him to turn around and notice how terrible I look and drive me to the hospital because something just isn’t right, it hurts, but I know I am not a teenager anymore, and I cannot just expect people to come back after I push them away like that. I can’t blame it on the hormones or the fact that I am not old enough to understand what I’ve said and done: I’m a grown- man now, I have a criminal record, and the thought of dealing with that alone is mind-boggling. I want to shower, and lie in bed until I forget I am alive.

*

For a few days, I barely ate, which is ironic considering how hungry I was. I slept, a lot, and mostly spent my time reading about the protests on my computer. It felt overwhelming to see all the hate build up, the desperation of seeing more people getting arrested, acquaintances reporting injuries, and the indifference of the government officials on the news. Months, months of marching under the sun, weeks of running away from cops, hours of writing and erasing the phone number of attorneys on our arms, countless cuts and scratches from breaking windows and , all that for what? I wasn’t ready to give up yet, I wanted to go back: there is some beauty in the collective struggle of protesting and losing your voice after shouting what you are willing to die for. But having lost contact with the others as we kept in touch through Jackson, I was afraid of going alone. Mostly, although not admittedly, I was afraid of going without my best friend. The latter has asked about me my mom said, but nothing more, and he did not contact me directly. I found it strange. Jackson was petty, but seldom with me, especially not when it was about me. I was a bit taken aback by the whole situation and wanted all but to aggravate it by calling him first. Or maybe I was just scared to know why he wasn’t calling. It all felt so unimportant and petty and I didn’t have enough energy for this drama, so I just waited.

I didn’t know what I was waiting for until I knew.

I heard a loud thud coming from outside. It caught my attention, but I quickly went back to what I was binge-watching. Probably just a bird that flew straight into my bedroom’s window. But I heard another one, and another one, before I decided to stand and go check. I blink hard when a bright green rubber ball hits the bottom corner of my window. I open it and bend over to look down. A guy was standing there, all dressed in black with his hood on his head and a half-face gas mask, about to throw the ball at me with all his strength. He stops and lowers his arm right away to raise the other, showing the walkie-talkie he is holding and a gas mask hanging from his thumb. I grin.

*

As soon as we got out of the metro station, nothing had seemed to happen yet, but the air was thick with hatred. People are angry. Like a windshield so cracked one could only distinguish colours and forms through it, either side only need a shabby, tiny rock to be thrown at them for the whole thing to blow up. People are furious, but it feels appropriate as people are hurt, people are getting hurt, and people hurt other people. No, there is no such thing as people anymore. There is us and there is them. There are those who are willing to fight and there are cowards. There are those who are angry, and those who are blind. I smell a mix of cigarettes and fire, and maybe chemicals but that might be my brain tricking me. My nose twitches, so I pull my mask up and tie it well at the back of my head. People stomp their feet to the beat of the chants. I don’t shout “ the police” with them just yet, but I am just as seething as them.

We stayed near the sound truck for a bit to get in touch with Bam, Gyeom and Lisa. We shared our positions with each other, but we couldn’t manage to find them before the march started and the mob swallowed us. So we marched, but I noticed Jackson kept looking around nervously: there were too many policemen around.

“Why are they surrounding us? Shouldn’t they be waiting for the crowd somewhere at the frontline?” he shouts above the regular chants around us.

“It’s fine… it’s peaceful for now.”

The younger scoffs. “You say that like it’s your first protest.”

I smirk, and I forget he can’t see it through the mask, so I roll my eyes.

“If you’re too far to hear, it’s just been declared unlawful.” Gyeom tells us through the radio.

“Duh.” Jackson says before he takes the radio to answer: “Have they started shooting tear-gas? We’re kinda trapped here.”

He doesn’t answer. While my friend tries to get more information from any of them, I look up at the helicopters above my head. That’s new. We keep on sauntering, occasionally brushing against people shoulders and apologizing for it, and something feels different. Something feels wrong.

“What’d they say?” I ask Jackson.

“Gyeom said they started throwing things at the cops, it’s a matter of time before they tear-gas us.”

“But the crowd is so packed, where are people on the frontline going to…”

I get cut off by the sound of an explosion, which makes my heart downright jump in my throat.

“What the was that?”

The chants stop dead, and distant screams can be heard, but I can’t tell where from. I look around, trying to see something between people’s shoulders, and people start pushing us from the left side. Another boom, closer this time, with a light flash from the corner of the nearest intersection. Had I not been in the middle of a demonstration, I’d be sure I have just witness lighting. I decide it dangerous when I hear gun shots, and I have to grab my friend by the arm to have him follow me as I force my way out of the crowd on the opposite side.

“Mark! There’s police over there too, we’re ed!”

“There’s police all around!”

When I turn to look at him, I notice that people around him have started running as much as the mob allowed. Jackson gets pushed and he trips, and as I hold him so tight I can only stumble and fall with him. Several people step on my hand before I manage to get up, but I fall back on the side when someone trips over my friend and bump into me hard enough to make us both lose our balance. A group nearby helps me up. I don’t look at them to thank them before I rush to Jackson who is now almost curled into a ball, protecting his head with his hands. I slide my hands under his armpits and pull him up on his feet.

“Are you okay?” I shout.

He nods and scans the area around. He grabs my hand and leads me toward the front of the crowd.

“What are you doing?”

“No one is going to try to escape where the pigs are!”

He wasn’t wrong. I focus on my feet as we try to move past people who are no longer running, but still pushing and moving in all directions. My radio keeps buzzing, but I’d rather reach for it when we have more space to move. As Jackson had imagined, the crowd gets progressively looser as we head toward the police truck. When I hear a familiar hissing sound from the truck, I pull on his hand to spin him around and I push down on the back of his head before a considerable amount of blue water falls on us. I blink several times, my eyeballs itchy and my forehead tingling. The younger stares at my face before he looks down and mumbles something I can’t hear.

“What?”

“Never mind, we gotta leave right now!”

He lets go off my hand to crouch and grab a broken piece of pavement on the ground. My heart rate increases, thinking he intended on throwing it at the police, but he runs to the nearest store. What in the world is he doing? I follow him, but I am too far behind to stop him before he throws the brick at the glass door. It shatters painfully loud, and he urges me to follow him into the shop. I sight the police nearby jogging our way, and I cannot think twice before sprinting inside the shop to follow whatever botched-up plan Jackson has. He heads toward the back of the store like he knows his way around.  

“What’s your plan?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.

He pushes the employee-only door open and takes out his phone to use it as a flashlight. I hear people coming closer, and my walkie-talkie calling me and my friend’s name repetitively. The younger walks to a door and pushes it: it’s locked. He takes a few steps back, and runs into it with his leg extended to kick it down. The door swings open and almost closes back, but he stops it with his hand, revealing a narrow alley on the other side.

“Let’s go!” he shouts.

“How did you know it led outside?” I ask him as we start running.

“I know my city!”

I try not to smile as we zigzag through the streets until we find an empty one. When we deem ourselves far enough from the agitation and the sound of street cones being moved and tossed around, he lets himself slide down the wall onto the dirty and wet asphalt, panting. He rips off his mask and let it hang around his neck. I notice the palms of his hands are covered in scratch like mines, but they are also spotted in dark purple and swollen.

“What’s that?” I designate with my chin between two breaths.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

He looks down, and chooses to hide them with his sleeves.

“Mark, Jackson, please update us when you can.” Lisa says in a nonchalant way in the radio.

I reach for my walkie-talkie, but my friend is faster. “We’re safe; we’re in an alley somewhere.”

“There you are! Can you move? We’re at the square of the financial district.”

My heartbeat slows down, but I see he still struggles to breathe. He runs his hand through his hair and gulps down, his eyes closed, before he answers: “Yeah. We’re gonna need some vinegar and water though.”

“We have that. You’ve been dyed?”

He turns off the radio and slips it back into his pocket as if ready to stand and go. I walk to him and crouch down in front of him.

“Hey, let’s take a break, okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He tries to stand by pressing his palm on the ground to get up, but he gasps in pain and removes it immediately. I sigh, and I almost reach to touch him, but I decide not to. I just look at him, chewing on the inside of my lips, and I wait for him to tell me whatever makes him anxious.

“I thought I was going to die. When…” He pauses, his eyes roaming over the place. “In the crowd.”

“But you didn’t.” I answer with a reassuring smile that he cannot see.

He looks up and meets my gaze. He stares at me, and I don’t want to look away, but I don’t quite understand what his eyes are trying to say. He takes a deep breath.

“You’re right. We should get going before they track us down.”

He stands up, but I don’t do it right away. “We can take a minute, we’ve probably just run for like, a solid ten minutes.”

“Mark, we look like two smurfs, we can’t just hang around.” Jackson pauses, his eyes narrowed as he is texting someone, pacing around the place. “Lisa said they have vinegar.”

I am worried about him; I know he isn’t quite well, I know he’s afraid, and I am terrified, don’t get me wrong. But he needs to back down.

“Jackson.”

“What?” he answered in a tone sounding so annoyed, I flinch.

“What’s wrong now?”

 He sighs, his lips, and puts his phone back in his pocket. He stops walking, and joins his hands in front of his face. He looks up as he exhales noisily, and I frown upon seeing him lacking so much self-control: I have never seen my friend like this before.

“They were ing shooting people out there.”

“It was probably just rubber bullets.” I answer in a mumble.

“Still, if they were willing to hit me in the face with a baton for no goddamn reason, what else can they do?” Jackson sniffs and scratches his jaw.

I look down at my own feet. I have never realized how traumatized Jackson have been by the assault, and now I feel like an for having been annoyed at his ty attitude.

“You know, we can always go home, if…”

“No, no, of course not. I’m just… Saturdays are always like this, I’m making a big deal out of nothing.” Jackson comes closer and reaches to slap my shoulder lightly. “Come on, we gotta take the metro before they shut it down.”

I breathe in as I stand up, and I see him putting his mask back on as he walks. He tightens the strap at the back of his head, and I want to tell him that he won’t get hurt again, not under my watch, but it sounds too cheesy, and I ultimately just stand there with my thoughts, until he looks back and nods at me to follow with a ‘what are you doing?’ look.

So I followed.

*

The sun set by the time we reached the square through the metro. When we finally found them, Bam was sitting on the ground, his face covered in blood, and Gyeom was wrapping his head in an improvised bandage while the other was sipping a drink from some fast food they got like everything was normal. Lisa greeted us first, and gave us a burger each before she left to get the promised vinegar for the dye.

“What the hell happened here?” Jackson asks as he unwraps his food.

“Take a wild guess, bud.” Bam responds with a rock and roll sign.

“Rubber bullet.” Gyeom answers for him. The other dabs, and Gyeom scolds him for moving before he continues his explanation. “He had his helmet off for two seconds and they got him right in the face.”

“I’m pretty sure this needs medical attention.”

Lisa scoffs at my remark when she comes back. “You think we didn’t try? That brat fears the cops more than he fears his life.”

“I don’t fear anyone, that’s bull. It’s just cheaper to have Gyeom do it.”

“Yeah that’s because you plan on suing me if it gets infected.”

We all laugh despite the seriousness of the matter. How can they be so calm about everything? The anti-riot squad has not arrived at the square yet, mostly because protesters here are busy moving stuff to block the streets around, but petrol bombs shattering on impact can be heard not far from here, and we know it’s a matter of minutes before it turns sour. I finish my burger in three bites, and let Jackson finish his before I suggest we start washing ourselves right away. We can’t risk getting arrested a second time. We start by rubbing our face and hands in the bitter smelling mix of vinegar, dye and alcohol, before we take off our hoodies to dry.

The square fills up more and more, and the police finally catches up in not one, but six minibus filled with anti-riot squads. Jackson and I exchange a look: this does not look good.

“Bam, what happened on the front line this afternoon?” my friend asks.

“What do you mean?” The other answers between two handful of fries. “We threw like, two cocktails and they started shooting, without warning.”

“Well, we kinda torched a police truck as well. But that’s because a kid got shot with a real bullet, and they wouldn’t let the ambulance through.” Gyeom adds, sounding almost bored.

“Wait, what?” I exclaim, at the same time as Jackson says: “With a real bullet?”

“You guys should really gear up.” Lisa suggests to both of us.

“Gear up, gear up, do we look like we carry ing bulletproof vests around?” My friend snaps.

The sounds of sirens get closer, and although I wish I could say or do something to ease Jackson’s nervousness, I feel like nothing could make him feel better. I see him struggle with the strap of his face mask, so I choose to help him with that at least.

“Here, let me do it.”

He sighs and lets his arms drop as I pull on the strap behind his head to tie it. I leave my hand resting on the back of his neck, and he turns around to face me.

“We’ll stay away from them. I promise.”

I know he is clenching his jaw under the mask. He stares at me, before he looks down and say: “What would I do without you?”

*

The protesters rushed to block the streets and start many decent sized fires around the square before the police arrived on foot like an ant colony, creating a frontline very much like a battlefield.  Since we didn’t have proper gear to be so close to rubber bullets, pepper spray and tear-gas, Jackson and I stayed with Bam in a looser part of the crowd after he argued with Lisa for a good half hour about going to the frontline and lost. He now looks like a spoiled brat and acts like one.

“Wow, I didn’t know we could be that useless in a protest. Are we gonna stand here all night, for real?” he declares.

“If by ‘stand here all night’ you mean ‘not pissing off dozens of men with a shotgun in hand’, then yes, that’s the plan for tonight.” Jackson answers with all his sarcasm, his arms crossed over his chest.

Bam hesitates, but finds no better reply than: “Now that’s boring.”

“Better be boring than having a rubber bullet in the forehead.” I mumble, to which Jackson extend his fist without looking at me so I can bump it.

Bam rolls his eyes with an exaggerated grunt. He looks around, and heads toward a group of people a few meters away from us. “I’m going to set a car on fire. Later, losers.” He says with a peace sign.

“Do you think he was being serious? We never know with that guy.” I ask Jackson, watching Bam disappear in the crowd.

I glance at my best friend, and I notice he is deep in his thoughts again, but not in an anxious way. He is looking at something, or maybe nothing in particular, but his gaze his calm.

I elbow him to get his attention. “Jack. What’s up?”

He turns to me, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I have an idea. Follow me.”

I lift my chin in suspicion, but I honestly cannot prevent myself from smiling. He grabs my hand and makes our way through the people around until we stand in front of a monument. We exchange a look, and I already know where this is going. He looks at the top as he suggestively raises his eyebrows, and I giggle in incredulity. Jackson… is something else.

He jumps to reach the edge of the base and pushes himself up to bring a foot on it. The ledge is so narrow he has to stand on his tiptoes and turn his head sideways to not brush his mask against the brick. It looks anything but safe, but I follow him anyway. We reach the top without too much effort, and we both grab a pole with one hand, side by side, to safely take in the view.

“Are you scared?” he asks in a softer voice as he lower his mask and let it hang around his neck.

“No.” I smile, and I do the same.

From up here, we see above the crowd: we are surrounded by thousands, moving slowly toward the horizon marked by flames which rise up to the sky in black smoke. From up here, we see the police cars being overturned and torched, the cops in their all-black anti-riot uniforms running after people with their gun pointing at them at the outskirts of the mass. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the breeze on my face after such a long time of being close to fire. My heart is beating fast, and the height makes my rib cage feel a little smaller, but I enjoy the aftermath of the adrenaline and the rush of playing cat and mouse with the police all day: from up here, it feels like nothing can touch us, even though the police squad gets closer and closer to where we are. I don’t want to care, or to fear at the moment. Jackson switches hands holding the pole, making it shake a little, and is suddenly much closer behind me.

“Mark.”

I look above my shoulder, and stop in my movement when I see how close his face is. I find it a bit awkward, so I choose to turn my whole body instead to face him, carefully repositioning my feet on the tiny spot I have to stand on. I do so to stop myself from blushing more, but it has the opposite effect: Jackson’s gaze is fixed on my mouth, and a faint smile lingers on his own. The sight of him almost makes me uncomfortable. I flash my teeth in an awkward laugh, hoping he takes the hint that he is too close, and that whatever he is doing right now is too much for me to handle at the moment. But he doesn’t. He makes it all worse by meeting my eyes for a split second, long enough to make my heart drop in my stomach, and locking his lips with mine.

My hand almost slips off the pole and my legs almost give way. He must have felt it, as he throws a hand behind my back to catch me and pull me closer, breaking the kiss at the same time. He blinks several times with a worried look on his face. I slide my free hand on the back of his neck and lean in, and I feel his grip relax on my back as he grins through the kiss. He deepens it and I let him, ignoring my out-of-synch heartbeat, my trembling hands and my overall lack of composure. For some reasons, my mind is submerged with thoughts I cannot get a hold of. I am not too sure what is going on, how is this happening, and every time I take a second to think about it, he does something with his tongue, he makes a sound, or I smell the odour of dye lingering and anything not related to the feeling of his lips moving on my owns gets forgotten as it just doesn’t seem relevant enough at the moment. I graze my fingers on the soft skin of his neck, trying to take in everything all at once, trying to forget that the world around is burning, and I let him on my tongue like it doesn’t make me shiver all over.

It happens all simultaneously, so fast that I barely have time to register what lead to what. He bites my tongue, hard, his body stiffens and he gasps loud enough for me to hear. I open my eyes just in time to see him slip, his hand pulls on the fabric of my shirt but he lets go because it’s too late: he’s already falling. He screams and falls for what seems like hours before his body hits the ground in the middle of the crowd. People shout in surprise and some look up, and I remind myself just in time that I cannot just jump to get to him. I try to analyze how to get down quickly and safely, but it feels like my brain just can’t think fast enough. I finally make a move, left foot first, not letting go of the pole right away, then right foot dangling in the void. I try to hold myself with my bare hands, the tip of my fingers rapping the cement, before I let myself drop on the first step of the monument and can jump off it.

I push past people as I run and shout his name. Thankfully, the crowd makes way and move enough to reveal him, writhing in pain on the ground as he holds his arm, surrounded by a few people crouching.

“Holy Jackson, are you okay?”

“I got shot!”

“W-what? Where?” I check his whole body, but in the dark, I don’t see any wound. “I don’t see anything!”

“My leg! , Mark, it hurts…”

I must be blind. He moves slightly, allowing me to see under his thigh, but I see no blood, and no apparent injury. I see his tears, his runny nose, and his face deformed by the ache. My head hurts like a , I can’t think straight and I feel powerless, I feel dizzy, I feel pain for him and my heart races. I hear people around talking about paramedics, and rubber bullets, but nothing makes sense. I can’t hear what people around are telling me, or him, or them, or us. I feel like I’m about to faint. The wind blows, and I breathe in a draft of either smoke or tear-gas, because it burns, it chokes me and I cannot keep the tears and the snot in. I let the people around call the ambulance, take care of my best friend and make sure people don’t get too close. I don’t register what I see around me. The flash bang grenades, the gun shots, the screams and the angry chants have turned into a bunch of muffled sounds to me.

A hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. I turn around, and I see Bam. I’ve never seen him so terrified under his full-face gas mask, and it scares me even more. He says something, but I cannot hear him over the ambulance sirens.

“What?”

“We have to go! Now!”

“I’m not leaving him!”

“He’ll be fine! The pigs are coming for us, you need to run, or you’ll go to jail!”

I look back at Jackson, who is now been taken care off by two paramedics, looking calmer while been spoken to. I hear louder gun shots, my ears are ringing, but I can’t move. Cops are now surrounding us, yelling at the paramedics to move my friend.

“An ambulance is on its way, we don’t know the extent of his injuries, we can’t-”

“If you don’t move him right now, we will arrest all of you for not cooperating!”

Bystanders approach and fuel the argument, tightening the circle around us. The officer who has spoken gets pushed by one of the first-aid worker, and he takes out his baton to hit him in the side. Bam gets in the fight, trying to disarm the policeman before he can hurt anyone else around, but he is quick to be sprayed by another cop. He is forced to let go to scream in pain as he crouches down, a hand over his thin dressing damped in blood that his full face mask failed to cover. I stand up and rush to him as a cop reaches for his arms.

“You are under arrest! Hands behind your back!”

“ you!” the other yells, his own voice caught in his throat.

I watch Bam trying to get free of the man’s grip on the ground, and in the amount of time it takes to say ‘ it’, I throw a leg over Bam’s body to knee the officer in the crotch and push him strongly enough to make him lose his balance. Bam stands up immediately, not without difficulty, and I take a last look at my best friend. He sees me make a step backward as I hold Bam by the shoulders, unstable, like I walking on a mine field with my eyes closed, and his eyes lock with mine. They are now chocolate in colour under the orange light of the blaze engulfing a barrage of trash close by, and pink takes over his cheekbones and the hollow around his eyes. He glisters from the sweat and the chemical tears and the snot almost running down his abused lips that he can’t close because breathing through his nose would feel like it’s not enough. He nods, as if he knew every step I take tears me apart, and I pull Bam into a sprint.

When I break the stare and finally look in front of me, I hear a detonation, it’s so loud it takes over my world and pierce my eardrums, and for a second I see white, and black, and spots. I take a step back and cough uncontrollably, my ears are ringing and pain comes in waves inside my skull, I don’t see anything, I don’t hear anything, but I feel like I am being pulled hard, and I feel a blow, kind of like a punch, or like touching a hot stove by accident, on my face. I feel myself losing my balance and falling backward, but I don’t feel myself hitting the ground.

*

When I wake up, the room is pitch black. My body feel incredibly heavy, I need strength to simply make my chest rise, and the air makes its way in my mouth and my throat: it’s so dry I feel like I am swallowing sand. I choke back a cough, but no can do. I hear someone gasps and stutter breathe. I want to see, but I realize, I can’t open my eyes. In fact, I can’t really feel my face, or my head. It’s the same feeling I had after I got my wisdom teeth removed, like I had been run over by a ten wheeler truck. 

“What… happened?” I manage to let out, my voice unwillingly low and raspy.

My fingers reach for my face, and I am surprise to feel a bandage on my temple, wrapped around my head.

“Don’t touch it!” Jackson tells me.

I sigh in relief, he is okay, and the corners of my mouth go up without me even noticing.

“What’s on my face?”

“You’ve had surgery.”

“When can I take it off? I can’t see you.”

He stutter breathes louder and swallows a lump. My heart sinks in my chest, like a pill that won’t go down no matter how much you swallow.

“You…” His voice breaks, piercing my heart. “There w-was a tear-gas, c-canister… in your face.”

I stop breathing. I let the words sink in.

No, that can’t be.

He pauses, sniffs, and I brace myself for what he is about to say.

“They couldn’t save your eyes.” he lets out all at once, like it was causing him pain to hold it in. “I am so, so s-sorry…”

I bite my lip so hard, I want to bleed, and to hurt there, so it doesn’t hurt here. I must stay calm. I must, because if I don’t, we’ll both lose it.

I slide my hand across the bed sheets in search of his, but I can’t find it. “Give me your hand.” I mutter.

Jackson takes it, intertwine fingers, and squeezes it. It’s sweaty, but it’s soft, although I feel the tiny scabs all over his palms. We stay like that in silence, or rather I stay like that in silence while he struggles not to sob, and I can’t look at him, I don’t know where to reach to touch him, and I don’t know what to do with my own suffering and thoughts that this will be the end of me, of us, whatever we are. He doesn’t let go, and probably doesn’t even notice we are still holding hands, when he brings our hands to his face to wipe his nose with the inside of his wrist. I stretch out my thumb until it touches his face, and I let it go down until I feel his jaw, his facial hair, his chin, and his lower lips under my index. I stretch out all of my fingers, forcing him to let go, and move my fingertips across his wet cheeks until I can cup his face with my hand, and his neck with my thumb.

“I already miss your face.” I whisper to myself, not fully aware I was speaking out loud.

Tears keep running down on his face, falling between my hand and his skin, and he puts his hand on top of mine. If sitting up didn’t seem unthinkable in the amount of effort it would take me, I would find my way to his mouth to kiss him. The thought of it makes my heart skip a beat.

 “I’m just here snotting a-all over you and… you’re n-not even freaked out b-by any… of this.”

“I think I’m still high on somethin’ though.” I smile, and he laughs, making me smile more. “We’re alive. And that’s pretty miraculous already…” I let my arm drop, too tired to hold it up any longer. “If you ask me.” He places my arm back on the bed with one hand.

“If I hadn’t… if I’d trusted m-my guts, and…”

I sigh. “Don’t blame yourself, it’s useless.”

I sit there, thinking of why should he even feel bad, how could he have prevented it anyway? And I think of what happened, about the fact that I am blind, I am blind and I don’t wanna hear it, I don’t wanna know, because then I think of him, of him kissing me, of the look of his face so close to mine, of his eyes when he laughs, of my eyes, my eyes, what do they look like now? I won’t see him, or my mom, or my dad, or anything and anyone, ever again, and I can’t breathe, it’s excruciating, I’m drowning, I’m choking, and my whole body hurts. It feels like death, but death can’t be worse than this, it can’t.

“Mark?”

“Don’t leave me.” I manage to let out before I break into a sob. “Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He nearly crushes my hand, and I dig my fingernails into his skin, like holding him is the only thing keeping me whole.

Jackson moves, but he never lets go off my hand. A weight is suddenly pressing down on the mattress next to me, and I feel something hovering over me, over my face. I recognize his warm breath over my mouth, and he brings our laced fingers on his chest before pressing his forehead on mine.

“I’m not leaving, I love you, I love you so much, I won’t leave you, ever…” he whispers until I can breathe again.

And I let him, and his heartbeat, and his regular breathing, the warmth of his proximity and the memories of his eyes I can’t see, take my pain away.

And free me.