Archive of Our Own ^beta

Head down, hands in pockets, NATO sat on the wet paved path leaning against the cold damp walls of a place dear to him, almost as if it was his home. The grey sky loomed over and fired raindrops at it as if they were bullets, but he didn’t care nor did his tattered uniform, its camouflage worn away with age.

Next to him was a small backpack, that could easily be mistaken for a rock especially now in the gloomy curtain of the rain. He examined it for a moment, as though he’d seen it for the first time, then took the soggy wreck and placed it a bit further from himself, just far enough to rest his head on it when laying down. The time was of early morning so there was no one around to question or judge such peculiar behaviour; moreover, only freaks would dare to return to this barren hostile deserted part of the city.

And so he lay there half asleep, eyes closed, frequently twitching from the numbing wind, whose howls echoed inside his head as he contemplated the melancholy, reminiscing thoughts swirling round and round in the demented mind of his.

The memories came back in a flood of emotions making him yearn for the past even more. The times they’d gather here instead of the newly constructed modern office; the jagged brownstone walls of these dilapidated ruins were by far more welcoming than popcorn ceilings stinking with fresh paint and enormous galleries with crystal chandeliers, as if built especially for traumatising poor agoraphobes into panic. While all other coworkers have adjusted, his attachment to this scattered wreckage of plaster and window panes showed no signs of subsiding. In his head he endlessly cursed UN for making them move all because of his want to socialize with colleagues. The doubt in him ever making a normal human interaction as the isolated leader type was enormous, moreover colleagues.

Even the term colleagues never seemed right, they were more than that. Acquaintances, pals, friends… no preexisting word could possibly fit in the right description for what they were. At times rivals, yet with respect and admiration to each one’s potential, never giving up care for the other. As if bathing in a cocktail of mixed feelings, both were baffled in love and hate.

Lost within his thoughts, he failed to notice how the storm got heavier meanwhile. Now thunder rumbled and lightning lit up the sky with beams of dazzling brightness. At first, he tried to withstand the alarming rate at which the rain was falling as best as he could, however it wasn’t long before it tortured his skin enough to awaken him properly. He sat up, wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt and noticed the guitar, that he’d once again stolen from his brother peacefully resting on his lap.

At once, he remembered the purpose of this visit. Today he’d be leaving for military practice and the date of his return remained unknown, even to him. One thing everyone new for certain was that it wouldn’t be soon. So like he would do on such occasions, he readied himself for one of the most mournful, soul-tormenting performances he’d ever give. Gently, he picked up the instrument and gazed at the battered strings in awe of what they’ve been through. Then shifted his attention to his fingers, barely distinguishable from the bloody mess of ointment and flesh his hands were.

Kneeling down, he admired the thunderstorm and abandoned buildings surrounding him. “Not everyday would you get such sights.” he thought while rotten doors swayed in the wind, shrieking in fear of the ominous setting they were part of. Soon after, he left this deed and, once he’d gathered enough strength and courage, strummed a hideous-sounding chord. Tremulous, distorted sounds echoed through the hollow streets and their monstrous roar caused havoc among birds and wildlife alike, who all fled in fear.

He smiled, appreciating the harmonious cacophony for a moment and began strumming the ramshackle strings again, this time with a sense of rhythm and melody. Gradually, the electric notes faded, letting his hoarse voice take over the main tune. He was no good a singer but the screaming solo conveyed his fury no worse, and so the melodic dismay continued. Homesickness ravaged him, not in the usual sense but quite the opposite. Any thoughts of continuing life in this world disgusted him and this existence-repulsed way of living exhausted him further each day. The lone wish he had was to go anywhere else, even if the cost was his life. Nevertheless, he smiled and sang: