My words broke the trembling silence: “It fills me with such beauty, such mystery.” I spoke of the heavy fog that creeped along the tree covered mountains.
Blood had turned my sweet Dalia’s hair into mass of sticky red goo. With a look of loss in her eyes she turned to me. But she said nothing. That is, her mouth issued no sound, but her look gutted me with a sword of incredulousness.
Stupidly I continued: “Death…is a door to a mystery. Perhaps a beautiful one.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” Her voice was choked with blood, with horror, with an unstoppable descent toward into insanity. The sound of it made me want to cry, for there was nothing I could do to take her pain away.
And that was the worst part: the not knowing. Not knowing whether the fog was isolated to our little hometown, whether there would be outside help, some sense of hope, or if the country, no the world, was already enveloped in unspeakable evil.
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