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

2 kommentarer:

  1. Yamile says:

    Wow! Your writing is beautiful, I really do love it, and I definitely intend on following it.
    I definitely agree when you say that government help with education and medical is a necessity. Its way to important for ANYBODY to miss out on and unfortunately having not enough money means you wouldnt be able to afford these things. We do have public sdchooling in America, which is paid for by the government for the kids in the community. I suppose that is good, right ?
    77 F isn't so bad! I love the hot weather. How is the humidity ?
    you have really defined seasons?
    Wow, you've traveled quite alot, that sounds awesome!!

  1. Yamile says:

    That seems good ! I love hot weather, though aha.
    So of course my favorite season is summer. Im in the 11th grade, which is being a Junior in Highschool in America. Which means I only have on year of school left since after tomorrow I will be a senior. Tommorrow is my last day of being a junior.
    I used to go to a private Art school which was very much fun, I love art so I liked going there.. but unfortunately after I moved here, to Colorado, I couldnt go to an Art school anymore so now I go to a middle class public school. All public schools have a dress code. Its hard to enforce in most schools because of the population. We have two thousand kids at my public highschool now. I dont really like "cliques" or anything like that. I dont really like people my age at all actually, I know that sounds horrible. But I prefer hanging out more mature and less materialistic people. I do love shopping, but my life definitely does NOT revolve around it. Most of highschool does have their own little "groups" like in the movies, but i try to get in good with everybody. (:
    My boyfriend has a "clique" of friends that are the only ones he hangs out with though, that kind of bothers me sometimes, but i guess its okay..
    How about at your school ?

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Ge mig ett ögonblick av din tid.

"Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future; concentrate the mind on the present moment."


Ett ögonblick.

It dawned on her and her entire world changed. Just like that. During one moment. That's all it takes. And moments - they're all we've got.

Here is a collection of moments. They are moments in which decisions are made, life-changing things happens, moments in which people finally stand up for what they believe in; fragments of lives bound in a single moment during which people shrink back in fear and terror. In some moments nothing at all happens.

Here they are. Moments of the World.


All men dream; but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recess of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.
T.E. Lawrence

I am Me.

18 years of age and expected to have a whole life planned, expected to know and to want. I don’t want much else than being happy, but people don’t like when you answer questions like that. It makes me a bit sad but there’s no need to worry: slowly, I’m changing the world.