Friday,9th august 1936
From the perspective of Orin as a child
And I saw a beast rising out of the sea having ten horns and seven heads;and on its horns were ten diadems,and on its heads were blasphemous names…
And the dragon gave it his power and his throne and great authority…
They worshipped the dragon,for he had given his authority to the beast,And the worshipped the beast,saying,
'Who is like the beast,and who can fight against it?'
REVELATIONS 13:1-4 NRSV
10:43
Seven. I was seven years old when the war started. It was the last thing–the last remaining memory I have.
My head hung low, droplets falling from my chin, rolling down from my hair. I shook my head rapidly, shaking off the droplets. Slowly, I turned my head. My eyes drifted along with it. There was a boy walking towards us. I knew him but he was unrecognisable. Beyond him there was suffering.
Not by bombs. Not by fire.
It was etched within the very sky itself.
Rain fell like needles of glass, severing the thin veil of silence the air held, slipping through the gaps in my threadbare clothes.
I felt nothing in my feet. Only numbness.
As people, we find it difficult to imagine nothing.
I have seen it.
The face of hopelessness, plastered and sewn into the souls of men and women alike.
I looked up.
The stars were silent—speckled across the heavens like the eyes of gods awaiting the verdict, or the spears of an army waiting for their call to strike.
Our feet hesitated for every crease and stone in the ground. Pressing down on rocks we'd trod on before and known our whole lives. It was like braille for feet, beneath the skins of the earth. Mud clung to our soles, reluctant to give way, then slipped in the rain of forgetting. The rain which washes away crease and stone and memory.
My mother and I.
Through plains that once held grass and grain—memories of happiness—now of blood and stains.
Now, of glass and death.
Her fingers squeezed mine.
I did not squeeze back.
I knew she was pretending not to be afraid.
That made one of us.
She tugged my arm, urging me forward, trying to break my stillness.
"Don't turn back."
Though she didn't say it, it felt as if that were what she meant.
Crows rose like smoke—black feathers sashaying through the air.
They blotted out the sun in shifting patterns—a Rorschach of war.
I saw faces caught between hell and purgatory: grief, rage, sorrow—
All worn like tragedy masks upon disfigured faces.
Then the bullet came.
Just one.
It tore the silence in half.
A thread of smoke meandered from his barrel.
She collapsed into the asphodels—white and pure as phosphorus.
I caught her.
I held her.
I was a child again—but older than time.
Her eyes trembled—heavy, faltering. She bit her lip; blood slipped through her teeth. The rain carried the blood down her chin.
Was it the pain of the bullet?
Then I saw the tears.
It wasn't the pain. It was a mother's love.
I wanted to cry.
But nothing came.
And that emptiness called to me again—
That infinite plain of nothingness.
It drove deeper than any wound.
Hurt more than pain itself.
Then I turned.
He was there.
The devil himself had come to Earth, holding a metallic rifle, its arm resting on his shoulder. Holstered to his hands, pointed at her body. His finger wrestled with the trigger.
He had corkscrew horns coiling around his skull, reaching from crown to toe.
His teeth were conically honed, stretching below his chin.
He stood before me, his head held high—smiling.
When I asked It how it felt, he muttered,
"Pride."
He shot her body again. Her body shot up from the ground then fell back. I flinched.
The boy glanced at me.
He dropped the rifle.
His fingers crisscrossed into his palms.
His eyes glimmered.
He had blonde hair.
Cerulean eyes.
The crows cawed twice.
He didn't pursue me or try to follow—
Rather, he just watched, as I sat within my silence.
I couldn't move.
Or scream.
Or cry, for that matter—
As if time had stopped.
In moments like this, I always thought I'd be the first to cry.
It's natural to cry.
But the feeling didn't come.
I scrunched my face, trying to force tears.
None.
"Is this okay?" I thought.
"Childish."
I looked onward.
Plains of grass and trees.
A village ahead.
A church bell ringing, monotonous.
The occasional bird chirping, sporadic.
I looked up.
It began to snow.
And then—there it was.
The sky tore open.
Eight stars streaked across the heavens.