We go into as we do everyday. He is the first to enter and I follow him. We sit down as usual, he sits on the right sofa and I sit on the left one. We hardly talk but we keep silent. We look at each other for some minutes. Everyday I turn on the television set, no sound, and look at it, but I do not watch anything. The screen blinks made up by an infinite amount of colours. He looks through the window and his eyes get wet but he never cries. While I pretend to be watching television, I glance at him. He appears to be far older than he is. Suddenly I can bear such a heavy silence and I tell him that the walls should be painted and he stares at me hard, as if he did not know who I am. Some minutes go by. Then he replies me: “We must put some flowers”. A cockroach quickly crosses between us but we do not paid attention to it. The daylights slowly disappear and we gawk at it.
She used to sit with him. The little ones used to sit beside me but they preferred to play on the floor. To some extent they appeared to be protected playing in the middle, embracing by the sofas. As if they are into a parenthesis apart from the rest of the world.
I had always believed that you first hear a hum that tears the air. But I do not remember having had any warning. On television there was a football match. I wanted to continue watching the match but he asked me for helping him. We went to the first floor to bring some wine bottles.
This is the reason why we went out although the little ones started to fight and the little girl fell and hurt herself. She was who embraced the little girl and kissed her head and reprimanded the little boy who seemed to be the most frightened.
And that was the last time we saw them as we like to remember them. The last time that they were themselves instead of a lot of pieces of flesh mixed with glass, stones, ashes and dust.
I hope that the people who did it had a really good reason. I guess that they hoped a kind of glory forever in the heaven. Maybe, they are already living in the paradise that they wanted to reach with the killer rocket.
On the news, I saw their photographs and the images of their embalmed bodies during the burial. I even recognized myself. I was crying, embracing him. He was serious, silent, and calm. After our piece of news, the newscaster continued with other news.
Some of their speakers have explained that it was a mistake. Something was wrong. They were collateral victims; we must understand that the big causes sometimes bring these little errors.
They have sent a press release in which they say that they are really sorry about what happened.
I try to hold my hatred back and to understand these ill minds. I try to forgive as I have been taught to do. I try to know the difference between a fierce wild beast and the person who thought, decided, planned, and ordered this intense smell of burned and blood.
Nights are hard. I hardly sleep and I know that he does not sleep. The dawn seeps through the hole in the ceiling, the sunrays first light the space where they were the last time that they were. And I cannot avoid having a spiritual thought and feel that they three come back every morning and fill this darkness of grave with their light.
Every night, he suddenly gets up from his sofa and goes to his bedroom. I turn off the television set and follow him.
We never look at floor; neither do we look at ceiling.