© Marcel Roelfsema 15 September 2000

It's cold up here.
It's cold down there.
Its probably cold everywhere.
I am cold, that's for sure, cannot remember being so cold ever .
Everything must be frozen, my fingers can hardly screw the sight on the fucking barrel.
Although it are not my fingers that bothers me, or my eye of death, it's my frozen mind.
That polar sea up here, where no brainstorm or wave have passed since...since this fucking shooting party started.
It used to be a huge open sea, ships from all over the world sailed it, there where no pirates, no sinking, maybe an oil spot once in a while,
peanuts in comparison with this compassion less virginal whiteness.

Look at me.
Sitting on the roof of my good old school.
I really made it to the grade now!
I wish my father could see me up here, but he wasn't invited.
I wish headmaster Boon could see me up here, but if he had he wouldn't be dead now .
Look at them down there, crossing the playground, shy, lightly bent, there eyes moving like a pendular, left, right, left, right, left, right.
They're all in a hurry, but their last piece of dignity keep them from running.
They should run! bringing their rotten tomatoes and filthy rice form the bombed marketplace to what's left of their families.
I can make them run, without aiming , a blank cartridge would be enough to tear this so called survivors apart, the echo of my shot wouldn't even reach there ears.
Fear makes damned good runners.
But I've got only one bullet left, and i have a target for it.

I look through my sight, and my world turned into green.
It's a peaceful colour, which is rather cynic for its use.
Why are sights made out of green glass?
I use to think that it should be green, for it is the colour of camouflage, but what's the use of camouflage material that's transparent.
Now I know why the glass on top of my riffle, my third eye, my eye of death, is green: It absorbs the red of the blood.
It wont' let burn that, deep, living colour of red into your eyeballs.
It doesn't make spots on your eyes, and if your eyes see no spots, your brain register that there isn't a mess out there, green keeps your conscience clean.
Like a surgeon can't use seeing echoes of blood, it distracts him from concentrating on his patient, for that he covers his patient with green sheets,
green will absorb red.
I'm a kind of a surgeon, I cover my patients with green before I penetrate the flesh and let the red come out. I too have to concentrated, to focus, on my patient.
Although there is a difference between me and a real surgeon, by distraction his patient could die, and mine could live.

My green eye flies across the playground, my childhood captured in a little window.
I see the grass, where we use to play Cruyff en Pelé, my memory says that it was greener.
A man rushes into my sight, he carries a little boy hidden under his coat, my sight follows the kid, and let them run.
I see a pile of bricks, once it where the steps on which I first kissed Ellen.
The only threat in my personal war.
I know I have to hate what I loved before. But I don't feel it.
The love, I once felt for here forms a shield against the feeling of hate, but I know I have to hate.
I have to hate, for her standing on the wrong side, she can't help it, she was born on that side.
But young and in love, we never were aware of us being from "different sides".
The only awareness of her, being from "the other side", was when I felt my tiered legs.
She lived on the other side of the bridge, therefor, to see her, I had to walk six kilometre
I walked it twice a day.
Now there aren't any bridges left in this town.
Even the one between my past and present has blown away.
No one is connected to nobody.
Some didn't made it home.
They're stacked in the wrong world, couldn't make it to the bridge on time.
It's my job eliminate those lost souls, because they're not "one of use" and therefor a threat for our survival.
Ellen is my lost soul.
I blow my past out of my present, so the present is all there will be left.
And what about the future?
The only future left lives in the hope,
the hope that she doesn't show up , so I have to come back tomorrow, and tomorrow, is future.

There she is already.
I caught side of here.
She have to walk two-hundred meters out in the open, before the walls of the old factory will give her protection.
I will never loose side of here.
The speed she walks, it will take her about less than a minute to reach safety.
That's forty-nine seconds for me to pull the trigger.
I have to focus, it's hard because she impresses me with here way of walking, such a smoothness.
Her hair, from which I can recall the smell anytime of the day!
Thirty seconds.
She passes the bricks, does she think about us?
I don't have to wait, I can shoot here right now.
But than she will die in fear, when I wait and shoot when she thinks she's save, she dies with a relief.
She stops, my riffle continues moving, I've lost here.
Can't find here anymore!
My sight moves back, careful.
There she is, and she is looking at me.
I try to push my body, deeper into the concrete of the roof, although I know it's impossible for her to see me.
Please walk on, before you melt my frozen mind, run, run love, run.
She walks on.
My riffle stops moving, I got sight of the back of her head,
the last thing I will be seeing of her for the last ten seconds of her life.
Why shooting instead of shouting?
Why she instead of me?
I have to pull.
Have to pull.

I pull.


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