A Wilted Flower

War is to men what a bouquet is to women. Men pick fights until a war is unleashed on those around them, using their ego to defend their actions as the dead pile up. While women pluck flowers from the ground to be thrown together in a vase, their actions are no less senseless. The dead obviously equate to more than those precious flowers. However, in all senses, nature is still disturbed. Mind, body and soul are inflicted upon. Humans self-inflict these wounds without so much as a second thought. One flower plucked in a vase would suffice if not for greed. Perhaps, we will keep gathering flowers and the dead as trophies. In the eyes of a king, it is a masterpiece and a tragedy. What occurs for those simply wilted in the field?

Nobody is coming for us. It is an alarming statement to repeat in my mind while also forcing myself to pack. These movements come unnaturally to me as if I am a puppet with attached strings being pulled from above. This way, then that way, I cannot make sense of what I am doing. Why did I just reach for a lamp to pack? All these items in my home hold a specific memory but I cannot take everything. I unpack photo albums because they are not necessities either, throwing them on the bed where I used to have pleasant dreams. I flip through them furiously to get a glimpse of the photos in them, but it is not enough. I haven't looked at these in years and now I am forcing myself to increase my mental capacity in this stressful time. I begin to bend over, bracing myself with an outstretched hand.

I pull back my hand as fast as I placed it down. It is as if the surface I touched were hot embers forcing me to think otherwise. I cannot droop. Clothes, toiletries, and a stuffed animal from my childhood are all I pack in my suitcase. What felt like moving at the speed of light to pack was in actuality an hour I wasted pacing from one object to another. I have succumbed to looking over my tiny space once more. I cannot shake the feeling that I am missing something. Finally, I look to the dirty mirror in my bedroom. Tears are streaming down my face, but they have gone unnoticed until now. They come as easily as my breathing does at this point. At the apartment door, I turn off the lights and leave it all behind. Realizing the feeling I had prior, I will be missing my life.

As I exit the building, I am alone on the sidewalk. My family has long ago passed, so I suppose I should be lucky I only have to worry about myself. I am saddened by this realization, but also immensely grateful that they do not have to witness this persecution. Having no sense of direction, I look at a map on my cell phone and start my trek to the closest country's border. Simultaneous with placing my cell phone in my backpack, my mind becomes flooded with thoughts. I pick up my walking pace, as if to escape the thoughts, but they come faster, one after the next. I am thinking of my home I am fleeing and who will stumble upon the disorderly contents behind me now. The best case scenario is that I will return to my mess, only to clean it up as I left it. Although, I fear the worst is yet to come.

I am practically running as I look back over my shoulder at the building I have no claim over now. The flock of people I have joined are looking suspiciously at me. I slow, almost coming to a complete stop and my eyes flutter. I feel shaken. Someone bumps into me as they pass, and I am overcome to keep moving. The walking never ends. My mind going blank as I follow this sea of people is the only positive thing I can think of today. I am blindly following, as does any sheep in a flock. I have put my trust in them to guide me, not looking down as I walk, just straight ahead. The hours pass as I feel the sun shine down on us. Its' power becomes more bearable throughout the day.

Hours after leaving my town, we have made it to the countryside. The conversation in the group has died down, which one could assume is from the group's collective feeling of tiredness. It has been twelve hours since the golden hour in the morning has transitioned to the golden hour of the evening. The earlier light felt as if it signified our time to escape, while this evening's rays are embracing us as if we've returned home. Our enemy's power lasts while the sun's lingers. This natural power in the sky is fleeting. I now compare it to the freedom that was taken from us so freshly. We had it in our grasp one moment without fully understanding the weight it possessed. The scales have been tipped and the darkness is conquering the light.

The heads in front of me look to the sky, as do I, to take in the beauty of this peaceful moment. Silenced, we are waiting for this last gleam of sunlight to reenergize us. The bouquet is languished. A roar of thunder tears through the field suddenly! The semblance of conformity is altered. Some flowers have wilted, while others stand tall. Confusion gets the better of the group as some have ducked and covered themselves, no longer standing with others to decipher if the sound is thunder or bombs. I am wilted. There is no longer a sense of freedom within me. I'd gladly hand over my belongings to those who can go on. Nobody moves, especially as others, like me, have fallen to the ground within the crowd.

My eyes are closed. I imagine the true peace I'll feel when I'm dead, no longer running, with nowhere to escape to. Another shot through the sky escapes the atmosphere bringing rain. I feel a few drops on my face and continue to believe I am facing death. Straight away, I am plucked from the earth by those nearest to me. They assure me it is just a change in weather. I am no longer wilted and waiting for the enemy's soldiers to find me. Death will come slower to me as I have been plucked from the earth to be placed in a vase in another country. We march forward to the hopes of finding freedom once more. I am angered by my past freedom I held in high regard. Freedom is nothing more than a status to be revoked. There is no hope for the future when history repeats itself. What makes you think your freedom is safe?