Counting Bullet Holes

My first memory

It is the last chapter of a long war.

Twenty-five years of a tango between the angel of death and humans.

It is a cold, moonless winter night. I sit in the back of my parents’ car.

We are headed to my grandparents’ house to hide in their bathroom with the rest of the family. The car has no windows or windshield. The conflict took its toll on the car, too.

My dad has garbage bags where the glass used to be, except for a little window for him to see through. The car has more bullet holes than I could count at that time.

That night I turned three.

I sit in the back of the car and look out of the bullet hole closest to me.

The city has no lights, and the highway misses the feeling of a traffic jam upon it.

I see nothing but darkness, but that never stopped me from staring into the void.

It seems as if my dad is chasing the wind.

No matter your age, you will always know when you are truly running for your life.

My mother is playing her favorite old tune.

Maybe she wants to fly away on the wings of music to a better time, or maybe she is trying to drown out the sound of artillery that the rain failed to drown.

I wonder if she knows that no one ever hears the sound of the bullet that kills them.

Time passes unnoticed.

The future becomes a luxury you cannot afford.

The car finally slows down. I recognize the scene.

We are in my grandparents’ neighborhood.

I can tell from the candlelight dancing at the entrance of every burnt building we pass.

We park the car. We run inside.

The bathroom is already full.

My grandpa is on the toilet seat with my cousin in his lap.

My aunts and uncles are on the ground, and the rest of the cousins are in the bathtub.

My father puts me with the rest of the cousins, and he and my mother find a corner to rest in.

A small yellow radio is positioned on the sink, sometimes playing news flashes and sometimes nothing but white noise. Everyone is dead quiet. Even the kids are silent.

Around twenty bodies in a tiny room will keep you warm no matter how cold the night becomes.

I know we won’t be here long because we never stay too long anywhere.

The man on the radio is always asking us to run to a safer place.

I am quiet, listening, trying to understand what is going on.

No one ever cared to explain to me what was going on.

They think it’s better if I didn’t know.

The truth is, it’s worse.

I finally give up and surrender to the world of dreams.

I rest my head between my cousins' feet and arms, and I leave my scary world with hopes of dreams that even Peter Pan could not imagine.

What seems like moments later, I wake up.

My dad is pulling me out of the bathtub.

Just as I suspected, we are about to run again.

In my sleep, the man on the radio had announced that the fight was approaching our area.

The family runs to their cars.

I am clinging to my father’s neck so hard he can barely breathe, and I’m looking behind to make sure my mother is keeping up.

As we exit the building, I look up and see lines of orange balls flying in the sky.

As if it’s raining oranges.

Moments later, the ground shakes and the sound of explosions leaves my ears ringing.

I can see everyone screaming and shouting to each other, yet I cannot hear a single thing.

My dad throws me into the back of the car. My mom jumps in, and off we go.

Again.