A hollow "clonk", when he's leaning his rifle against the nightstand.
Soles scrape on the floor when he gets on his feets.
„I don't know. I haven't seen him in weeks."
I don't like it, when he's stooping over my bed like that.
I'm so scared.
It's over.
Whatever may come after this.
It's over.
Perhaps...I'm also bit happy.
I'm still alive.
„J'aurai pu te tuer, andouille!"*
He mumbles to himself reaching for his handkerchief and wiping my tears away.
Secretly I'm leaning a little bit more in these hands.
I close my eyes and nod slightly, so that he knows that I understood what he said. I was never really good in speaking this language, but I can understand it a bit.
Him speaking about human rights, about civil liberties about fighting for freedom...it's one of the first thing in my life, that remember.
Liberté,Égalité, Fraternité.
He was so tall back then.
Strong and big and scary in the way he made his people believe in him.
So scary.
And familiar, like an relative coming over to your house from time to time to tell you how ugly your interior is.
"Que-ce que je fait? C'est mon ennemi..."** he mutters and sits down again folding the piece of silken piece of cloth neatly before putting it back in his pocket.
„Be happy, that I've got such a soft heart."
I like it when he's talking my language. I always did. The syllables are dancing like a melody through the room. I makes me notice how beautiful it can sound.
He looks into my eyes and it is almost unbearable to not avoid eye contact.
I nod again, not able to speak because if the big lumb in my throat.
Silence again.
I try to shift my body and shudder under the enourmous pain in my leg.
I can feel my leg again.
„Why didn't you kill me?" A whisper, I hope he's even able to understand me.
„I don't know."
The morning light, dimmed by the brown fabric of the tent, is playing with the dirty strands of his hair.
It is sticky around a big laceration right above his forehead.
„I hate you so much."
A nod again.
I'm looking in my blanket.
It's true. he always disliked.
Even before I did anything. Just because of my existence.
It was always like this.
I did give him millions of reasons to hate me, to make his detest even bigger.
„I don't know why I didn't kill you."
He is reaching out touching my hair. I don't dare to look in his face.
There are no tears anymore, that I could cry.
„But...
I don't want you to die.
I want you to see the pain you caused.
I want you to live with all this blood on your hands."
*„J'aurai pu te tuer, andouille!"- "I could have killed you you, idiot." (andouille can also be some kind of sausage, so I thought it was fitting.^^")
**"Que-ce que je fait? C'est mon ennemi..."- what am I doing? This is my enemy..."