The morning of my sixth birthday was a bloodbath.
Red Splattered among the streets of my home-my Africa. Only the infectious buzz of flies, blood thirsty and vulture like was heard. I did not wish to see the rest-what became of my home, I did not. But like a child, a curious young child, I walked. I walked the path of death.
The sun awoke me that morning, its myriad of rays searing my skin and its scarlet hue evocative of the chaos that swept through the night before. The scene laid out before me.
The rain fell down hard; its darkened skies illuminated by saffron and red. Houses lay either in rubble or a part of the conflagration that has stolen the town. People scattered like frightened mice and flee hoping to escape the horror that has graced the town with its presence.
I want to move. But I can't.
I stand and watch.
Horrified and Bewitched.
A glint of silver parts the dance of the crimson butterflies and blackened moths and I see a face, His face. But the dancing creatures obstruct my view.
Eyes. With an insatiable luster.
Lips. Slender and slightly parted.
More.
The ever elusive mouth reveals its secret.
Obscene and glistening red. Both beautiful and sickening at the same time.
I walk closer, almost enticed with danger of blackened moths, crimson butterflies and unseen faces.
Closer.
My heart races.
Closer.
My eyes only reflect the desire that this danger holds.
Closer.
I can smell the musky scent of draining life, of burning ash, of clashing steel.
Closer.
I'm so close. Nothing matters but him. Even if I can hear the screams fall before me. Sad and sick. Mad. Desperate cries. Anxious, Terrified shrieks. Only him.
Closer.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
And I wake up.
I half laughed out of frustration. He always left me longing to see his face.
He always seemed to elude me, whoever, whatever he was. And for that, I hated him.