On the Square

There is a man in the city square. Most of the city has been evacuated. This one man remains in the square. There are wrecking-ball sized holes in cafes and office buildings. Bricks and debris are scattered throughout. Where once pigeons ate rustic bread at the feet of a small child on holiday, there are now only reminders of industrialized destruction.

The man in the square is alone. His hair is greasy and thin. It falls straight down to his forehead. Everywhere he turns he scolds, pinching his eyebrows together. His clothes are unremarkable. His build is average. His profile, standard. Nothing about the man felt extraordinary. Except the bloody, eviscerated bundle of fabric he held in his arms.

He walks the city square. Everyday. Wailing. He moves with tremendous weight. His arms strain to hold the bloody bundle in his arms. Occasionally, the man will stop. He will fall to the ground, landing on his back. He never lets go of the bundle. When he lays there on the cobbles of the city square, he screams. No one seems to hear him.

If the shells fall near the city square he screams then, too. If the invader’s tanks roll by, he screams then, too. If the invader himself comes too close to the square, he screams then, too. But most of the time, he is silent. He walks. The tremendous weight of the bundle binds him to the square. He does not leave. He cannot leave. He walks at seemingly all hours. His screams reach no one in particular. He is alone.