In that place I could be anyone, I didn't have to be a country, I could be human… or perhaps no-one at all.
The people flowed like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but swirling around them. The women with their beautiful dress swirling as they moved. On those wide avenues with wilted trees, their leaves curled and blackened in in the August heat, the fruit stalls on either side. A hundred years ago I expect it was pretty, the golden light on the sandstone architecture, built in the days when curves and design weren't considered superfluous. Even the street-lamps were dreamt by an artist, built by an engineer following the the teachings of a scientist. On days like this, crammed in with more bodies than I could count even in a photograph, I tilt my head to the sky. The empty blue gives me the strength just to walk at the pace of the crowd and bottle my claustrophobia inside my chest.
"Papa!" I heard a voice cry.
Turning around I saw a small girl, her golden hair in messy French braids as she cried. My heart tugged…
No children… I cannot bear to see children… not today..
The girl sobbed, rubbing her amber eyes and she cried. She looked so frightened in the busy street – I couldn't leave her there. Biting my lip, I tried to suppress my feelings as well as I could and I walked towards the child.
"Mon cher…. Why are you crying?" I asked, kneeling down and placing a hand on her head. She didn't look up at me, but she seemed to calm down a little at my touch. "P-papa - Où est mon père? [Where is my father?]" She managed to splutter.
"Ah, she's lost" I thought to myself.
"My sweet, you are lost – oui?". The girl nodded and looked down, her little chubby hands clutching her dirty dress. Smiling I took one of her hands gently and gave it a gently squeeze. "What is your papa's name?" I asked softly. For the first time, she looked up at me – large aqua eyes gazing at me…
Just like…
I thought my heart would rip open – suddenly the red lights came back, flashing in pulsing before my eyes. I felt myself sway as I placed a hand on the ground to retain my balance. I can feel my cheek getting wet with tears. I don't remember crying for pain for the last few hundred years of my life – so whenever I'm reminded of…. That woman…. Why do I react like this? I went to stand, but my foot slipped. Staggering backward, my mind swirling with that woman's face, my breaths shallow until I fell in a heap to the floor. My eyes drifting shut … the last thing I saw were those eyes.