War is not worth living for.

Life is precious to me.

That day everything changed in me, like my cells took automatic function to control my being purely, without emotion.

I am cold and warm today, the sweat drips from my forehead while I walk into the room.

Everyone stops and looks, waiting for a shout, waiting for tears or insanity.

A week ago, this building was on fire, the floor was tainted scarlet and my blood boiled with grief.

How does one copes with death?

I studied the human body for so many years, I made an effort to be the best doctor in this city. I made myself into a target.

War hits everyone.

A week ago, I was ready to help the world. Ready to believe that there is always a good side. But I was wrong. There is no good side to bloodshed.

It happened on my final day at the hospital, my final day as a resident. After I could go and take care of my own family, go back to my peaceful and futile country. I was going to earn me deserved medal as an exemplary good person, as a stupid young fool that survived practicing in a third country.

Oh, so naïve I was.

The building is brown to the core now, it wasn´t built for flames. The black of the corners and the strange aroma told me a story every day. It warned me of the danger, it showed me the poverty that even with my eyes open wide I didn´t wanted to believe.

The eyes on my face burn, my brain feels compressed against the bones that cage it.

A week ago, the hospital was the new target. Soldiers, the “brave men” that supposedly give their lives for a better world, rushed in through the main door, like a death wave. And then the world went blank. And the bullet wave of death found bone and tears.

Soldiers, they took lives and they smiled while doing it. They felt accomplished and proud. After that is their job, after all the human nature is proud violence.

The bombings came next, then smoke blinded my mind. I feel dizzy and the ground moved non-stop.

I was dealing with a severe case of haemorrhage, internal bleeding, a kid no more than 8 years old was dragged out of the war floor and brought to us this morning by his devastated mother. She cried so quietly while never letting go of his hand that I didn’t had it in me to tell her he didn´t have much life left.

There was a new born baby girl in the maternity wing. She had just survived her first heart surgery and for the first time since birth she could now breathe on her own.

“She is going to be okay”, I told her single father. His wife had been killed while still caring their child in a civilian attack. She was cooking him dinner.

His smile lit the world when he knew he would have a piece of her forever.

The maternity was the first wing to be hit.

I was in the next wing and I swear I heard the cry of babies for a split of second. And then the silence came. The silence that made me crazy.

And then blood was shed in the main wing, bones and muscle revealed in the daylight. The bomb only hit half of the wing but the rest was made a massacre by proud men wearing a braveness symbol on their chest.

Blood.
Blood.

Everywhere.

Rumble and flesh intertwined in the horror that war is.

I hear it before I felt the fear. A third plane hovering around just above my head.

I knew it was my end.

But it wasn’t.

Because however decided to cause such suffering felt like two bombs and an attack squad killing innocent people on an hospital was enough.

So, I was left with the silence.

The fire.

The smell of death and burn flesh.

And no baby cries.

I wish I had died with them.

But here I am, in a room full of survivors. Giving a speech about how important it is to live.

Using the mask so well, I am.

We are just waiting for the next Bloodshed.

War is not worth living in.

 

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