Dispatches #14: Broken — My Heart
You know – sometimes I arrive in several hours. Sometimes within several days. In this place the firm plan is something hard to follow. But there is one thing which is constant: my beloved Fanta will always wait for me when I come home. I have rescued my beloved cherub from Black Angels so that she should be absent in city. At the moment, yes, she is of this world. But, she really should not be in this world. She – a thin flower who wilts from strong beams of the sun. She will not be wounded, and I shall not allow her to die. She – my blossom of a greenhouse.
But, today, I come nearer to our house and something that I know is that something is wrong. All is silent—all always silent—but there is a kind of an immovability in air. The kind of silence which arrives after the worst thing to the world has just happened. First I come to complete inactivity. Who knows who observes that I cannot see? But this silence grows as an illness–as a cancer—and then I become excitement motion rushing through carefully disguised doors and ladder platforms in our house.
All – chaos. Shelfs are taken down. Beds are turned. Boxes have been released. Anything that can be moved has been moved. Something that can be broken has been broken. Food poured on all extent of a floor. Guts of our electronics have been spilled also. All this was only from search or some kind of struggle? I cannot know for certain.
Then, however, I see a print of a hand of blood on a wall. A small hand, not a hand of a man, but a hand of my beloved Fanta. What did she think, as she has pressed it against a wall? What I had brought her? What has been lost? That the end was a decreasing number of seconds? Or it was only a matter of time until I have arrived to find this and give an output of my revenge on those who has made it?
Black ideas overtake me for an instant. I think of that past and all bad things which have happened. I look ahead and also everything that I can imagine – awful result. My stomach is sick, I am heavy, and I feel as though I never shall be I again. I feel an idea that it will be never possible for me to be me as I became accustomed.
Then I remember the statement of the father: the person cannot live in the past which it cannot change and cannot live in the future which does not happen. Negative? Assured? Nothing has been solved nevertheless so why choose the worst result? Instead of it hope for the best, planning of the worst. I have no control over something except for my actions and my attitude to that I do. As there is nothing other I can make, it is everything that I can make.
I collect me and then I leave to make following steps to murder of those who has made this and return my beloved Fanta.
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