Soundtrack: Antony & The Johnsons – Bird Gurhl
De är tysta. De tiger. De är tyngda av världen och allvaret ligger som en tung, våt, obehaglig filt ovanpå deras tillvaro. En tung atmosfär, tyngre än någonsin tidigare, omger dem alla medan de sitter i tystnad, funderandes på världens sätt till konflikthantering. De är vänner, alla är de vänner, djupa och sanna sådana. Starka band har formats mellan dem, band av vänskap, kärlek och tillit. Band av hopp. Tillgivenhet. Det är en tyst kväll och resten av världen tycks sova djupt. Hur kan de vara så lugna? undrar de. Hur kan de fortsätta som om ingenting inträffat, som ingenting hänt, ingenting påbörjats? Det är därför de sitter här, nu ikväll. Ingen av dem tycks klara av att släpa sig iväg till sina sängar, till sina rum, till den kyliga ensamheten som är det enda som kan existera i en natt som denna.
Det var en attack tidigare idag. En hård, brutal attack som lämnade världen nio liv fattigare än tidigare. Hade de levt i den Gamla världen hade de inte ens vetat om det ännu och de hade fortfarande kunnat skratta och sova. Men de vet. Allt för mycket vet de, allt för mycket är de inblandade i världens göromål och allt för mycket ser de. De är bara nitton år, ungdomar som står och väger på kanten till vuxenheten, på kanten till det fantastiska ohämmade livet. De borde inte behöva sitta här, desperata efter de andras stöd, tysta och trötta trots att striden ännu inte påbörjats. De vet att den kommer, de vet det med. De är rädda. De ser döden och smärtan och rädslan deras värld kommer byggas av och allt för klart ser de hur fruktansvärt ont det kommer göra. Ändå kommer de kämpa. De kommer slåss. Alltid, kommer de att kämpa.
De är vänner. Sanna vänner som älskar varandra. Bryr sig. Trots det, kommer de tvivla. De kommer känna rädslan och hopplösheten och från det kommer tvivlet att gro och spira. Som en cancersvulst kommer det växa till enorma proportioner och skära av blodet, det viktiga röda blodet, tilliten; säkerheten i deras tilltro till de andra som ännu flyter varm mellan dem. Det kommer bli en hård förlust för världen, den av vännernas vänskap, och den äkta oskulden kommer för ett ögonblick upphöra att existera. Tills den återvänder igen, på samma sätt som oskyldigheten alltid gör, i formen av andra människor med andra förflutna och drömmar och en annan vänskap. De kommer känna smärta, så som människor alltid gör när det som är dem mest dyrbart blir taget från dem, abrupt och ofrivilligt slitet från deras liv. Det kommer göra ont. Fan, det gör alltid ont.
Flickan har lutat sitt huvud mot pojkens axel och den andra flickan har tagit den tredje flickans hand. Och den andra pojken sitter på golvet, stirrandes in i den artificiella elden med tomma ögon, hans rygg lutad mot den tredje pojkens. Den fjärde pojken observerar dem alla och känner att han borde säga något, någonting, vad som helst, allt för att hålla den för honom solida och obehagliga tystnaden på avstånd. Men det är omöjligt. Orden, orden och hela den grymma världen fastnar i halsen som en stor klump av osäkerhet, omöjligt att få bort. Han ser kärleken som de andra utstrålar och känner sig redo att gråta. På bordet i andra änden av rummet ligger den utskrivna artikeln som de alla läst och paden som uppdateras igen och igen och igen med nya rapporter, nya rapporter med askfyllda bilder med blodet på marken som svider i ögonen på dem alla. Nya berättelser om avslitna lemmar, om människor som lämnats kvar, som åsikterna som sprider sig som olja på vatten. De växer upp. De har växt upp. Idag. Det tog en dag. Bara idag.
De är vänner. De ler långsamt mot varandra. Solen går upp. Den första pojken – mannen – reser på sig och han tittar ut genom fönstret. Han ler. Det är ett bräckligt leende, ett osäkert leende, ett leende som ingen av hans vänner sett tidigare. Men det är ett leende. Och det räcker. De är ju vänner. Eller hur?
tjugosjätte maj tvåtusentio
Under ett ögonblick sörjer hon förlusten för hon har glömt hur de smakar. De djupt röda, mörkt röda, frukterna som alla äter när sommaren tillslut behagar dyka upp; de varma av solsken och lycka, odlade av regn och gödsel. De små, små bitarna av sommar serverade i en gyllene bägare av skinande glada dagar. Hon kan inte längre återkalla smaken, hur de små fröna fastnade mellan tänderna; endast att de smakade gott. Underbart, vid finnandet av en som var lite, lite rödare än de andra, bättre än de andra, mognare än de andra. Hon har glömt hur de smakar. Jordgubbar.
femtonde maj tvåtusentio
They are so very different it is almost insane. He believes one thing, she another. They are different. He, a believer of light and kindness and compassion. He fights for one thing, for the freedom of choice, for the right of being whoever you wish to be. She is a fighter of another kind and has long since fallen for darkness and corruption and the power which follows. Together, they are in a constant battle of domination and survival. Their covered-up meetings are not only ones of love, but ones of release and quests for information. Who shall back down first? Who will break, crack and crumble? Which one of them will cry out in pain and shower the other in words of love? That is the struggle they meet when they sneak away from the light of day and meet in secrecy.
It is a harsh reality they have come to live in, a reality with a day-to-day struggle. The world is ever-changing and so is the battle, what with humans changing sides and the constant evolution of weaponry. The numbing beam sure as hell scared the shit out of them both the first time it was used against them. Now they are the ones to use them and it is a part of the norm. In his hand he holds the gun that makes everything splatter. He hates it. It creates a mess when used. The walls, you, the world – all is drenched in the splashed blood of his former enemy. He wants his usual guns. The XP12 which blasts a hole in his opponent, or the VZ3 which blasts a slightly larger one. Then he recalls the guns his lover tends to always carry. That, is a gun to cherish.
She sinks down on a couch, waiting for him to come. This is unusual. Mostly it is the other way around; he is the one waiting for her to turn. She prefers it like that. There is a loud rumbling from above and she tenses, listening for the ringing noise forewarning a bomb-drop from a hovercraft. Ready to move at less than a second’s notice. But no such sound is heard and she remains on the ripped, faded old couch. She wishes she had been there to see it in its former glory. It would have been interesting to have seen something in colors strong and vibrant, not like the present; fake, faded. She is in an attic and it has been abandoned since long. In fact, the whole building has. She in a remote part of the city, shut down by officials. As if any listens to them anymore. Officials are the ones her lover belongs to. She however, could not care less of the law-breaking and this must be considered one of her more petty crimes. The floor is covered in a thin layer of dust and so are the few pieces of broken furniture, scattered around the room. Two windows give a view of the city, but both has she covered with fabric. The fabric is ugly, threadbare and ugly, but serves it purpose. It keeps the inside light in. As of this moment the lights in the room are two, both powered by batteries. They should last at least for the duration of their stay. The lights make it shady and the shadows are dominating, the darkness more than the light. She hears a small creak. It takes her barely one second to pull her guns, rise and turn around.
“Oh. It’s only you.”
She chooses to speak the joint language, the one they both have learned since birth, yet the one neither prefers. They both know and speak three languages: their own, the shared one and the one of their enemy. Seeing it was him, the one she was waiting for, she lowers her guns swiftly. No hesitation can be found in her movement. If he wished to kill her he could have done so twice already. She curses herself for her carelessness. He has raised his hands, blatantly showing his compliance. His guns are strapped tightly against his body and not one is pulled out. She twirls her own guns, only to impress, before they go back to where - according to him – they belong. In her mind they belong in her hands, fully drawn. As according to their mutual, unspoken agreement he, the one to arrive lastly, removes his guns first. She follows suit and soon there are two piles of guns, knives and grenades in the room and on the floor. It is rather incredible how many of them one is capable of wearing. Now dressed in only their clothes, he in a dark and lackluster maroon and she in grey, they stare at each other, her eyes meeting his. Then it snaps, she takes a leap over the couch and they are in the arms of each other.
He has always had a thing for her eyes. They are brown, beautiful and when she, like now, has removed her cold mask they show him everything there is to see in the world. Sitting there, entwined with her, they are having one of the most intimate moments a sentient being can possibly have. His hand is stroking her neck and the other resting firmly at the bottom of her back. He leans his forehead against hers and sighs. She knows what it means and knows it to be true. Yet, they remain together just a little bit longer.
During the day they are enemies, true enemies, blood-nemesis. They kill each other’s friends. Murder them. Slay them in the cruelest mean possible. It could be considered an act of betrayal in itself but it is not. It is war. You do what you have to do. They do not believe the same thing, never have, and neither is willing to let the matter go. Too much blood has been spilled to even pretend to take it lightly. There is no peaceful solution. It will always be war. The do not fear death. Though there is one thing they fear, never brought up, never discussed. To solely bear the responsibility of the death of their lover? That is a burden neither could carry. Though if one did, one would never know. The faceless masks they carry long since removed any means of recognition. So they might. They do not pull triggers with hesitation. One day, either might wait in an attic such as this and the other may not turn. War makes for a bitter habitat.
When they dress it is in silence. Some days they talk animatedly but not today. A hovercraft passes and they both tense as everything surrounding them shake. The moment the shaking wears off both of them continue dressing as if it never occurred. Before they strap on their guns and their small reprieve is over, he cuts the lights. Then he takes her hand, throw the piece of cloth on the floor and together they climb out onto the balcony. It is small and it is rickety and the rail is far too low to provide any kind of protection. There he pulls her down and wrapped together they spend another hour on the scrawny scraps of metal, watching the clouds hiding the stars. In the end she is the one to leave first; having an appointment she needs to keep. She gives him a final, lingering kiss and, lovesick as he is, he remains on the balcony until her presence has faded entirely.
femte maj tvåtusentio
Buddha