Song of the Scavengers

There he was, lying on the glowing sands of Mali, his lead-pierced carcass soaked in its own juices, like a rag doll left to fend for itself by a temperamental child. All around him, the indifferent scenery, this immensity of ochre and pebbles, roasting under a star that burns your retina as surely as the burning copper that devoured his insides.

And above, the scavengers, circling like a morbid saraband in this too-blue sky, watched him with their empty eyes, on the lookout for his last convulsion. He could almost feel their gluttonous stares weighing down on him, like cannonballs attached to his soul still stirring in his suffering pulpit.

Pain, a merciless bitch, assailed him, breaking over him in burning waves only to run aground, leaving him there, breathless, as bewildered as a rabbit in front of a car headlight. Despite everything, he resisted, braced himself against this life that was slipping through his fingers like the too-fine sand of this cursed desert.

Every breath he drew was a salute to the reaper, every heartbeat a rebellion against the nothingness rumbling at the gates of his consciousness. And in this desperate struggle, isolated under the blazing sun, he engaged in a conversation with himself, meandering through the twists and turns of his mind, wrestling with his memories, his remorse and his terror.

In this indescribable mess of her mind, the past begins to flash by. A chaotic slideshow of his life, a jumble of images, blurred faces, laughter, screams, all bathed in a sea of emotions and aborted desires. He remembers his departure, his mother's tears on the station platform, his old man's tight smile, his little sister's confusion as to why her big brother is leaving to play soldier.

And then there are the less tender memories. The arguments, the shattered hopes, the broken promises. Regrets, a slew of regrets that eat away at his insides like a cancer, poisoning him more surely than the lead that laid him down in this godforsaken desert.

Every memory wrings a groan from him, every past image twists his guts. Everything that made up his life is now decomposing before his eyes. Dreams, projects, illusions, all disintegrating, evaporating like a puddle under the midday sun.

He sees himself again, first as a carefree kid, then as an idealistic young man, and finally as a soldier lost in a country he doesn't know, far from anything familiar. In his delirium, memories intermingle, collide and dissolve. The past overwhelms him, drowns him, engulfs him. Everything becomes blurred and confused. And the pain, that bitch, returns, stronger, sharper, wringing from him the cry of a wounded beast. But the memories remain. They accompany her in this macabre dance, as the darkness becomes denser, more menacing.

He feels himself flickering, the soldier, like a candle in the wind. His heart beats wildly in his chest, each pulse a hammer blow that draws a death rattle from him. He feels himself slipping away, like a boat adrift, carried away by the current. His strength leaves him, betraying the little will he has left. He's nothing more than a dying body, his spirit gone, off on a tangent, leaving his envelope to its fate.

He still fights, by instinct, by reflex. Every inhalation is a fight, every exhalation a defeat. He's alone with his pain, with his fear. The desert heat now seems more stifling, the sun more scorching. Reality, that bitch, slams into him: he's going to die here, alone, in this fucking desert.

So he accepts his demise with a resignation that seems more frightening than the pain. Fear turns to sadness, a melancholy more bitter than the bitterest beer. And that's when he feels her, the Grim Reaper, caressing his cheek, as gentle as a mother tucking in her child. Then he gives in, abandons himself, dies, alone under the infinite sky, under the icy gaze of the scavengers awaiting their feast.

Death has taken the bidasse, leaving just an empty shell under the merciless sun. And the vultures, those winged spectres, set to work. They descend from the sky, those demons, to feast on the soldier's remains. Without pity or remorse, they are the masters of this macabre spectacle, the kings of this hell of sand and solitude.

They pounce on the body, these beasts, with a ferocity that would freeze the blood of a saint. They tear, they rip, they devour. Flesh, muscles, viscera, everything. They do their job, these scavengers, cleaners of nature, recyclers of the living. They're frightening, terrifying, but in their brutality, there's a purity that just won't let you go. They are the only real winners here, the only ones who can survive in this hell of fire and death.

They leave nothing behind, not a crumb. Just a pile of sun-bleached bones. And then they leave, satiated, satisfied. They fly skyward, taking with them the last remnants of that soldier, leaving behind only the bleached skeleton, mute testimony to a life snatched too soon.

And then nothing. Just the wind picking up, making the grains of sand dance around the bleached bones of the soldier. The vultures are gone, leaving behind only this pile of bones, this monument to the futility of life. Silence returns, heavy and weighty, reigning over this infinite expanse of nothing.

The desert reclaims its rights, indifferent to the tragedy that has just unfolded. Nature, that old bitch, carries on as if nothing had happened. Life goes on, without a backward glance. It's an endless cycle, the eternal dance of life and death, creation and destruction.

The soldier's memories, fears and regrets are all gone. The vultures have taken them with them, scattered in the air. He's just a fleeting memory, a fading shadow in the blinding desert light.

Only the desert, silence and sun-bleached bones. And then time inexorably passes, eroding memories, erasing traces, until nothing remains. Nothing but sand, wind and eternity.