in a dead language - vmon

ix.

When we reach our destination, we turn it from a gallery to a battlefield with paint for spilled blood and empty aerosol cans for spilled guts, we write our war chants down, demands seen rather than heard of rights we have always deserved, a freedom we've earned in a world where kids like us are born free, born safe, born real, without having to fight for survival and without being weighed down with injuries that can never heal.

The battle ends soon and we find ourselves on the run again, hiding in alleys behind dumpsters and within ruins of what was once somebody's home, cars burnt and shelled down to the bone. We blend in with the wreckage and for a moment I wonder, how can we be remembered when our entire existence is collateral damage?

"We can't go home," you whisper, panting. Sirens ring in the distance, growing louder, coming closer. "They'll follow us there."

My mother. Your sister.

"We can hide here. They won't find us."

And then we can go back home to our mother and our sister, who sleep blissfully oblivious in their beds.

(They find us; they have beasts who follow our scent through the alleys, a scent so distinctive and vibrant of kids who aren't only fighting tooth and nail for survival, but aspire to live life to the fullest despite being stuck in a city bleeding its resources to death under siege and explosive, lethal rainstorms.

They find us, and they slam us simultaneously against the car.

I wince, because I can see the blood in your mouth as you grin at me. I wince, because I don't see this ending well.)