Cries From the Rest of Us

“Liquidation of the Christian Elements”
That is what the Turkish Killing Squads are calling it. Well, at least officially amongst themselves and by their higher order. As we are the ones being “liquidated” we do not receive such polite descriptions when addressed. Instead, we are called horrifying names alongside clear descriptions of our newfound impending fate. 
Not that I am entirely fazed by the words, we were never considered their equals. Their beliefs and their laws said so. 
I crinkle my nose as sand kicks up against my face. I’m huddled among other individuals in an unrefined line up. As my eyes dart around I begin to estimate that there are possibly around a hundred of us in this ensemble. I hear a loud gunshot somewhere in the distance and a shout, indicating that it is time for us to move forward. I’m apprehensive; the hot sun is bearing down on our bare bodies, as none of us are wearing any clothing to protect our skin. I feel terribly physically vulnerable. I lift up my head to see in front of me, biting my lip upon seeing the desert-like scenery beyond the destroyed tented village and belongings. So that is where they are taking us…not sure what will happen, but here we go.
I lift my fingers up and begin to chew nervously at my nails. The ground feels rough in between my red toes. I can smell the sweat of everyone else around me, blending in heavily with the dryness of the air and the smell of old death lingering nearby. Noticing my newly tattered nail, I brush my hand away towards my side, convincing myself to try and be strong. 
After a few minutes of pathetic walking, we discovered we were walking past a very disturbing display. Part of me wanted to look, part of my wanted to remain focused on the ground. With my inward logic conflicting with itself further, I wanted to look in order remember who they were, to remember their faces. Even if I die soon myself, their memories may at least last a little longer in my heart, the best tribute I can bestow on them. But I didn’t want to look because I was afraid of the fear and dreadful sadness. I have seen enough already in such a short time, is it necessary to see more?
When I look around to see what the others were doing, I notice some kept their heads lowered, while others quickly glanced up at the gruesome spectacle. There was an old man beside me, and he made the choice to look. It didn’t take long for him to begin sobbing. Tears streaked his wrinkled and dirty yet gentle looking face. Making up my mind, my eyes look upwards towards my left, peering over the other people’s heads.
There was a long line of crucified young girls. Their bodies withered and stretched in agony against the wooden crosses, their heads dropped forward as their long hair flutters against the tender wind. Except for one. One girl appeared to still be alive, her eyes wide as she stared up towards the sky. Her mouth opening and closing repeatedly in a slow and haggard manner. My breath sharpens as I look away in horror. I so badly wanted to assist...to call out to her, to pray for her, to at least somehow comfort her. 
I cannot hate you, My Lord, I thought to myself. I cannot doubt you. This is not your wrongdoing, but the foolishness of the mortals on earth. We were given the right to choose good and evil, to love or to hate, and some have chosen the latter quite comfortably. 
It is difficult to contain my own newfound hate, but at least I can still be angry. At this point I cannot depend on anyone else to hand me reassurance; I can only take care of myself and my inward soul, knowing that my heart is not alone.
I hear the sound of someone collapsing behind me, followed by the sounds of footsteps hastily stomping over. Within seconds, I hear the cocking of a handgun and a loud shot. The Turkish figure that pulled the trigger briskly walks past me; his face filled the expression of calm yet accomplished dutiful contentment. I glare at his back. A very risky action to do, as simply looking at them the incorrect way instigates a severe punishment. But at this point it would hardly matter much.
My family and I have originally prepared ourselves to escape, knowing that the murders were happening in other areas of the country. However, they had reached us before we were able to leave. My family was immediately executed and my small brother taken away to be placed in a proper family and forcibly converted. I was set aside briefly, in consideration that if I was pretty enough I may join a harem. However, long term fatigue and hunger will take one’s toll on someone’s appearance. 
“Hurry up, you Armenian whores,” I hear a deep voice call out from a distance. I wasn’t sure where the voice exactly came from. Not very necessary to call us that, sir - I think to myself in subtle defiance - most of us who remain on this trail are the elderly and barely of age. I rub my hands repeatedly over my arms, my chapped lips now bleeding. Walking…walking…and more walking…
Then I hear the blood curdling cries of people from the front our marching line. I and the surrounding members who couldn’t see what was going on ahead of us became startled and confused. What is happening? Then it all became clear as the lineup scattered itself in chaos.
There was a cliff. I see the Turks forcing people to jump off the edge, threatening them with rifles, pushing them, kicking them, stabbing them, yelling at them. Further turmoil arose among everyone as they tried to get away by turning and running at various directions, but it only led them to being shot immediately. I suddenly feel a rough hand on my back as I am pushed forward towards the ominous empty boundary, gasping as I peer down the long vastness of the bottom. I see bloodied and mangled bodies already crushed against the spiked rocks down below. A boy suddenly shows up beside me as he tries to fight against a Turk, only to be picked up by the hair and thrown over. I hear the echo of his wails as it travels across the air, ending with a hard thud. 
I scream and push back against the hand. “No! No! NOOOO!” I turn around to try and fight the figure, knowing in my soul it would be impossible, but I refuse to go down without an attempt. At least let them see that we are not merely weak and foolish little infidels. I reach out and stab my thumb into his right eye, jamming it in as deep as it would go. The man yelps in pain and staggers backwards, though managing to grasp my arm. I push off his grip, but just as he did that I feel another arm wrap around me and lift me up. 
Then I suddenly feel it. A deep, pressurized pain was developing in my stomach. I look down and noticed a knife was plunged into me, twisting side to side before being pulled out. Tears begin to well up into my eyes. Just as I was about to groan in despair and utter physical shock, the knife glazed across my neck in a quick and efficient motion. My body suddenly felt limp, the heat of my own blood cascading down my chest. My throat gurgles as my head limps against my shoulder. Rough hands on my back lift me up.
And then the sensation of free falling.
At least the sky is pretty today.
Category:Mental Illness
Category:History
Category:Reality