"You've got to be kidding me,"
When I saw my brother Sam on the other side of that police brigade, something inside of me just snapped. We have drifted so apart now that it is almost impossible for me to imagine sharing a dinner, going to a movie, or even meeting without some form of an argument. It was enough for me to see him to make my skin boil. His leather jacket, his bald forehead, those heavy boots. He barely looked like the kid I used to remember from our childhood home. His arms were filled with tattoos, and his body looked like a balloon from all the steroids. I always knew he was using them heavily, even though he denied it. Those things were taking a toll on his health, and anyone with eyes could see it. But no, he wouldn't listen to me, just like with everything else. We were estranged, and our lives drifted in a completely opposite way.
No, all of that broke down when he decided to support our really "amazing" father and became a skinhead like him. It is genuinely a fascinating feeling to know your brother is a fascist, who would break a baseball bat over your friend's head if given the chance. To know what sort of people he associates with. Who he hurts, or whom he "corrects". I believe he has also gone down the hill into the drug scene. These people, bikers, don't exactly shy away from anything drug-related, despite being so preachy about it to anyone else.
Still, I never really expected him to be THAT stupid.
He was here. On the biggest anti-government protest in this country's history. In the crowd of approximately one hundred thousand people. Among the waving flags of protest and hope, during the wave of change, he came to support the Prime Minister and his party. He did this even though even a baby can see that the authoritarian practices they are trying to implement are wrong.
They are going to change the Constitution for Christ's sake! They want to change election rules and set up a system that will establish something straight out of The Handmaid's Tale! So why does he support them? Why is he so stupid that he supports them? Our dad was always a deadbeat - he didn't take care of us at all. It was Mom who always took care of us. We didn't even see him until we were about ten, because that's when he was released!
I distinctly remember the feeling when I came to those cold prison walls and saw him sitting there in that orange uniform, handcuffed like some dangerous animal. I remember his cold, almost lustful stare when he looked at us. I remember being terrified of him. I always opposed meeting him - I was smart enough, even then, because, quite frankly, our mother had remarried, and I always saw the man she married as my real dad.
And I thought Sam saw it the same way. However, that wasn't the case. Maybe it was the court's fault. Our father wanted to see us regularly, and there was a long and nasty court battle over it. And the result? It was decided that we would visit him once a week. But I immediately refused that. Sam? Well...He agreed. And that drifted him away from us. That made him worse. That changed him. But I still believe it wasn't just our father's fault. No. After all, like I said. Sam decided it on his own. I still remember what he said to me: "Well, sis, I just don't see it the same way as you do."
"Look, Mirka, it's the Chairman!" My friend, Patricia, is pointing through the crowds at the massive stage filled with green party posters, embalmed in the evening's Sun. The square is indeed stacked. I have never seen so many people here before. The atmosphere is something straight out of a fairytale. The buzzing of choppers in the air sounds like the flapping of giant dragon wings, and the chittering and clapping sounds like an echo of an old melody.
The Chairman. The opposition leader. It occurs to me that this is the moment. That feeling that his speech will be history. I turn my eyes to the government's lackeys standing nearby. The Police officers. The Army. Our grandfather was one of them, back in the old regime. He sometimes told me stories about the fear he felt during such protests. The fear of having to follow orders, even if they are wrong. To even hear orders to act against the people you swore to protect.
I have always admired him. And I believe that if it weren't for his illness, he would be with us too. This fear he felt. I am reminded of it every moment I see them standing in their black uniforms. Our protest is peaceful, while they have assault rifles and pistols.
There are so many people here.
And yet I wonder if it's not pointless.
Will something change? Will the party finally take notice and address the issues that matter? How much help will screaming and shouting at the square really do?
Even when the chairman started to speak, I could barely hear him over the shouts of the people around me. Something was wrong. Everyone was pushing into each other. There was chitter. Someone insulted someone over a trivial matter, and things started getting heated. There were provocateurs. I am sure of it. But a large crowd attracts all sorts of people. Everything around us, this whole melting pot of feelings and chaos, was a recipe for change as much as it was for a disaster. I saw my brother for merely a moment, and it was the first time I had seen him in a whole year. Now, he is once again lost in the crowd as the chairman asks for peace and calmness, while a conflict is brewing in the crowd.
Maybe it was he who did this. Could he have shoved someone? Smacked him? That sounds like him. I know what he did to that poor kid.
Nonetheless, I started feeling anxious and hastily grabbed Patricia's hand. I meant to guide her outside of the crowds. I had a gut feeling.
"Let's go, something is happening!" I ordered her, much to her confusion. She was a year younger than me, with large blue eyes, freckles, and a smart casual off-white outfit accompanied by a black purse. "Wa-" she tried to say something, but no words came out of her mouth as her head thwirled and twisted around with a dull sound of a concrete brick. It mangled her jaw and popped her eye out. She was screaming as she fell to the ground. I froze up. I was scared. Terrified. I began shaking.
"Pa-" I was at a loss for words. I felt as if I couldn't breathe. Every move she made, I felt her pain. My eyes were zoomed in on all the red pouring out of her head. On the scratched and torn tissue, which was quickly swelling and turning purple. I couldn't believe it. Someone threw a brick...and it hit her. It was as simple as that. I never saw such an open, gaping injury. My mind was completely blank in that moment. All I could hear were her screams. I should have helped her...But I couldn't do anything. It was as if someone cast a spell on me that prohibited me from moving. But reality was much stricter than that. I was simply scared. Scared of being hit just like her. And afraid of myself. Fearful of that little demon in my head that said: "Thank God that wasn't me. Now, I have to do something to escape."
That brick was the final push. I only barely remember what happened next. I believe the soldiers started shooting up in the air at first. Perhaps they were trying to reach me and Patricia. Tried to push through the crowds. Find the person who threw that brick. But once the assault rifles went on, people became more terrified. Suddenly, someone screamed: "They will shoot at us! They will shoot at us!" and the crowd started to panic. And once the panic grabs you...The crowd becomes the herd. They were running. Screaming. Shouting.
All that mass directed straight at us.
That woke me up. I tried to reach Patricia with my hand. I wanted to pull her away. But she was too scared. Too hurt. To immobile.
And so they ran over her like cows.
I heard her. Only her. And it was agony. I saw her as she was dying. She was my friend, and I was too scared to do anything. I merely watched. No one stopped to help her. Make sure she's okay. Noone. Everyone was fending for themselves and stomping on her, slipping on her blood.
Like animals.
"Please...stop..." I was so shocked and scared, I only managed to whisper as the crowds were pushing me away like a tidal wave. I tried to move to her like a salmon jumping upstream, but it was no use. "STOP RUNNING YOU IDIOTS!" I screamed from the top of my lungs, but no one was listening, for my screams were overshadowed by the wave of runners around me. I was merely one drop in the sea. One little drop in the mass of death. Drowning and suffocating in it like a wooden boat in a tsunami.
I honestly don't know what I was hoping for.
"Mirka, run!" It was all too late when I heard my brother's voice. He found me. Maybe he tried to help me. Push me in the correct direction. Perhaps he didn't know I was trying to run to my friend. Maybe he knew, but he didn't care anyway. "We have to help her! We have to help her, you idiot!"
I screamed. I screamed a lot. I scratched him, and I think I even hit him, although someone built like him probably didn't even register it. But he was dragging me away, and I hated him for it. "They are shooting into people!" his voice was uncompromising as was his strange calmness. "We can't help her, she is already dead!"
That calmness in a situation like this. Sam inherited that from our dad, too. Is he a psychopath or something? No. I refuse to believe this.
I am not leaving my friend behind.
"Sis, NO!"
Those were the last words before I realized my mistake.
And the zapping of a loose bullet ended my world.