The sun tends to rise early in August, and so it did that day. With the first glow of dawn, two boys, despite the omnipresent destruction, hurried out from their underground burrows called home and dashed through the streets, chasing the last bats which fleed from the first rays of sunlight. They clasped their hands together, index fingers outstretched and yelled "pew-pew!" at each other as they pretended to be brave soldiers fighting for independence of the ghost town. They crossed the bridge excitedly, and then stopped dead. Two bodies lay a few buildings away from them. The boys dropped to the ground, rolled over to hide behind a pile of rubble and whispered to each other.
"Eey, Salvatore," a dark boy with sad, brown eyes, nudged the other, "you-a think they are alive?"
The other boy, with messy brown curls and an inextinguishable smile, slowly peered from behind the bricks they hid behind, "They aren't moving. I guess they're dead."
"They weren't here yesterday, Salvatore."
The boy scratched his head as they both observed the bodies, ready to flee if they as much as moved a finger. "Let's see, then, Felippe. They're not moving, they won't hurt us. One of them even looks quite Italian."
The black-haired boy shook his head and said, "Fine, but you go first."
They inched towards the lump of skin and bones, all the time careful not to make a single sound. Salvatore reached them first and noticed how badly injured they both were. His expression changed immediately, and feeling a sense of duty he kneeled by the mauled-up, naked Italian and had his ear hover above the man's nose.
"He's – he's breathing!" he exclaimed loudly, and stood up quickly, "we have to get Papa, maybe they can both be saved!"
Felippe nodded and confirmed, "Let's go. Say, the other guy, is he a German?"
"Of course," Salvatore replied without any thought, "who else would've stuck with an Italian through that sort of hell?"
They ran off, their feet pattering against the cobblestoned streets of Bolzano.
.
.
I was on a beach, lying on my back, looking at a large, brass gate while the sea tides lapped against my toes. I stretched out my hand towards the sky, and the tips of my fingers touched the metal bars.
Just then, some wild animals – I guess – started hauling my body down the beach, across the sand. It felt empty, there was no pain. But soon the gate was a distance away, and then it was out of reach completely.
.
"People fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend..."