Watching the bright, orange sky dissolve away, his once crimson expression had wilted away to a grim, inert state; the clouds had overcast the sun— crushing the last piece of ambition his body craved, and his stomach persisted chipping and churning, hopeful but yearning. Years had passed since the demolition of his country; after the ambassadors from the East proclaimed their “rightful territory”, the people of the West, his people, were exiled from the countryside, and their belongings were to be left— cold and unattended. Only six out of hundreds were able to escape following the lethal invasion: the family of four on Pearl Avenue, the blonde haired girl with green eyes from Fulton, and himself, the boy who once lived on Park Street. Whoever was not killed in the succeeded Western villages would be compelled to work under Eastern rule, which was perhaps, at the time, the only thing crueler than death itself. Since then, the boy had subsisted in discomfort, let alone disunity. He spent his days staring into the shadows of his past, nightly, hoping for a chance to redeem not only himself, but his people.
By the time the sun set and the moon had risen, the frozen, night sky was filled with an array of dazzling stars. Yet, without any optimism left in his body, deep below bleak reality, his heart could always be seen shining as bright as each star in the glacial sky.
Cynically, he gathered his dirt covered backpack with crumpled photographs of the West Country and whispered, “I have to get over this,” under his breath. Shuddering below the moonlight, a bitter streak of iciness had clambered up his spine. “It will all be okay. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
But it was not okay. Not even close. Months back, he was chosen as the pristine, new leader of the West Country, but only out of desperation by the public. He remembers watching his people suffer in the streets under Eastern rule. Eager to salvage himself, he collected his most priceless possessions: unsent letters, his favorite leather banded watch, and a lifetime’s worth of savings and fled away from the West Country. Desolate from his own mind and society, he hastily recognized his mistake; but, by the time he returned, his village had gone up into flames and his people— gone with the fire. He spent days— weeks— months near the Valley, hoping to rid the guilt of which was wholly his fault— and the liability of his position had made it only progressively worse. He was devoted to his people. He was respected by his people. And still, he determined he had failed his people.
Today, he walks the streets of his once country, villages, and home, longing for the idea of turning back time, just for a minute— a minute to rescue the people he cherished, not abandoning them.
I see him every once in a while, passing him by the Valley, the frosty, deserted Valley. I watch the marigolds, on the edge of the river’s grass, as they change their state: living, and then dead, and then revived once again in the spring. I hope to see him again like the springtime marigolds one day. Renewed.
His passion for his people was unimaginable— the burden of his mistake has haunted him since the moment of the East’s subjugation. And I, the blonde haired girl with green eyes from Fulton, remember him, and his adoration for his country and the people in it.