by Ally

The air is bitter and cold - filled with hostilities both spoken and unspoken. The dead leaves and twigs snap beneath the weight of snow and my boots. I would shiver, but I can't find a point in it. I stand on the right side of divided earth - divided by fences and wars. I look to my broken city and cannot recall when it was whole, yet it seemed whole once. I reach for the twisted, metal barrier. I slip my numb digits through the openings. They freeze to the metal. It's as close as I can get to my family now.

My country had a great war, many years before my birth, and has been in turmoil eversince. It did not seem so in my youth, however, for I recall grassy meadows that were flooded by flowers. When the war had subsided, a communistic govenment was instated. My father was a underprivledged worker, who gave all he had to his government. My mother had died half of my lifetime ago. The government only wanted to work my father, and all of it citizens harder. I watched my father, as his body broke apart as the days wore on. My brother had found means of emmigration long ago. His motives were never questioned.

Two years ago I joined a great rebellion. I quickly rose to the ranks of General, and after witnessing our leader's head being blown apart, I became its leader. Our rebellion is still being fought in the quiet bars and on silent street corners. The mutantists will never be quelled. My comrades were either slaughtered in the streets and dumped into the bonfires, or fled the city. I shivered. I fled. But in doing so, I left behind the only person who understood me - the only person who ever loved me at all. I was forced to abandon my papa. I rebelled to save him and others like him, only to leave him freezing in the snow. I know not of his health anymore. I last saw him at this fence. I had barely escaped with the remaining conspirators. He stood watching, protecting his little daughter. He faded from my sight as we fled.

The wind is not wind at all, but ice, and it freezes my swollen cheeks. I stand here waiting for him. I stand here waiting for my country, and my countrymen. I stand here waiting to fight one more day. I stand here in the cold, in the snow, and in the ice.

Suddenly, I know that my country will not freeze. In all of its turmoil it has begun to burn itself, and because of its pride, the fire will go unquenched. Smoke and screams rise to God. My country's evils have turned against itself. The streets will again flow red. I am fortunate perhaps. I survived. And perhaps in the end, that is more important than winning the rebellion. I retract my fingers from the deathly grip of the twisted metal. I walk upon the death under the snow. I walk away, and I will never look upon my city again.

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