The North

My uncle was taking us north, where the German planes hadn't yet launched their attack. With the man seated up front, he took turns sipping from a bottle.

My dad and I were crammed into the back of the bus. My mother drew me close to her and closed her eyes. My father continued to bite his lower lip.

My uncle handed the bottle to my father and said, "Drink up." My father returned the bottle in its original condition.

Every other person we knew had already departed town. My uncle was the only one in town who still had a car. I had no idea why we hadn't seen my uncle in such a long time. He wasn't wearing his cologne, which he had previously allowed me to use. With the moustache he had grown and his huge beard with white threads coming through, he looked different from how I recalled him. His brow was wrinkled even more. He hadn't brought me a chocolate bag like he usually did.

My uncle's companion had a carved jaw. Under his black hoodie, a tattoo on his neck was partially hidden. The car had a strong cigarette odor.

“You know, he robbed the city's biggest bank,” my uncle explained. “However, that was not the reason he was detained.”

Smirking, the man said. My father had never been so silent before.

“Every single one of my brothers and sisters. My uncle stated, "None of them were there for me." “He came through for me.” His gaze was drawn to the man.

My uncle sped past all of the other vehicles. As we ascended through the fog to the mountains, the narrow road twisted. The cypress trees in the valleys grew denser as we traveled further north.

An eighteen-wheeler approaching from the opposite side honked its horn as my uncle attempted to pass the automobile in front of us.

“For God's sake, there's a youngster in the car,” my father said. As if his hand might save him, save us, he put his hand against the window.

“What? “You don't like the way I drive?” My uncle remarked.

The man in the front hid his face behind his sweatshirt and closed his eyes. My mother's tears streamed down her cheeks and landed lovingly on my neck.

“Don’t cry,” I said to my mother.

My father and uncle shouted at each other in the wind at a gas station. We couldn't understand much of what was being said.

A young boy was selling honey across the street. He yelled, "Mountain honey!" I was able to hear him clearly.

I was curious to try the honey from the highlands to see how it differed from the honey I was used to.

The man in the hoodie smoked a cigarette while peering out the corner of his eye at my father and uncle. He shifted in his seat, fidgeting.

We drove past rice fields and tea estates when they got back in the car. As the sun set, farmers walked back to their homes.

We took a gravel road into the hills, passing through vineyards and wild berry bushes on our way to a gated garden. While we unloaded our bags, my uncle and the man remained in the car. They just looked at us until we had everything out of the trunk.

As they drove away, dust rose in the air behind the car.

The garden reminds me of an ancient, deserted manor. The walls and pillars are covered in ivy. Two little wooden houses with interior spring beds.

One of the cabins was where we slept. The piss dribbled through the wooden boards when the cat peed on the roof.

Later, we collected rainwater by filling the cabin with tin buckets.

A greenhouse with kiwi and banana trees was present. Oranges with a reddish hue.

The hills around the garden were home to a herd of wild horses.

On a charcoal grill, we cooked lamb chops and eggplants. On the wood stove, we built a fire. My mother read me a story from one of the few books we'd brought with us.

After a few weeks, my uncle returned to the garden. He was no longer accompanied by the man from the automobile.

Two skinned ducks, eggs, and a bag of rice were among the items he brought.

“I brought some food and a radio,” he explained. He strewn them around the floor. My father received the automobile keys from him.

He said, "It's all yours."

The other hut was taken by my uncle and he did not leave it. My father would go to my uncle's hut numerous times a day, sometimes bringing his food and sometimes remaining for hours.

They warned me not to go there since my uncle was sleeping.

As my mother read to me, I heard my uncle screaming and cursing from the other hut.

My father took us to the village during the day. A little farmer's market provided us with eggs, bread, chicken meat, and fish. We went on hikes in the hills on occasion.

When my parents were sleeping, I tried to enter the other cottage, but the door was locked.

I saw my uncle naked, his hands and legs chained to the bed, through the crevices between the wooden planks. His long beard was smeared with vomit and hung from the mattress into a bucket. When his eyes met mine, he was shaking and squirming on his bed.

The battle was ended by the time I visited my uncle again. He'd returned to my grandmother's house and had put on a lot of weight. He sat alone in the corner of the room, not speaking to anyone. He only nodded when we asked him questions.

He put on weight as time went on. He didn't leave the house and didn't say much. He spent the entire day in his room, watching movies or listening to music.

But, for some reason, I don't think of the ruins when I think of him. Shrapnel or shattered glass are both examples of shrapnel. I recall the north, a boy selling honey on the side of the road, and the sound of rain dropping into tin buckets. The horses are free to roam the hills.