December’s revolution

When the winter came hard, winter is tied up to so many events, maybe because the change isn’t easy as this season can’t be gently. Today’s grown-ups were babies back then, just beginning their journey while their parents were on the streets, asking for freedom, from a regime that lasted more than four decades.

The communists didn’t let you think and if you did you were thrown in prison, in chains, tortured until they believed you forgotten who you are. They wanted to rule sheep not lions and they were getting close. Food was missing from the tables, honesty was a luxury no one afforded, friends were informers and even thoughts were controlled by these jackals holding tight to their undeserved power.

Right before Christmas people had enough so, the silence of the cold was dissipated by the truth, coming out from every chest that could still beat in their ancestor’s rhythm, those ancestors who faced empires, hoards, kings and queens, shedding their blood for freedom. On the streets people of all ages were asking for their life back, soldiers were forced to backfire on their own people, confusion gave place to death, countless lives lost forever in the name of justice.

In an apartment block, tall and grey, you see grey was the color favored by the regime along with the red of the people’s blood, there were two little kids. They came into this world not knowing they would live the change, not knowing what that change is but even they could sense that day wasn’t ordinary. Playing, as it is natural for their age, they hear sounds which drawn them to the small window of the apartment. Time stopped as their tiny eyes were looking into the horizon, their little hands grabbed the window sill when a bullet goes shouting in their direction.

In the street a group of teenagers dressed sloppy were under fire from other teenagers who were wearing a green uniform. The same blood running in their veins, living under the same sky and praying to the same god, they were now in opposite sides. The ones with their heads high up knew the stake and were well aware that their lives didn’t belong to them anymore but to their country, to the future of the babies born in a black time who can’t grow like they did.

The bullet headed towards the window guarded by the babies had been pulled by a shaking hand which wasn’t aware of the reasons or the situation, it was following orders. An unexpected current of wind diverts the bullet’s trajectory right before hitting the window’s glass, passing by the kids’ heads, missing an inch from disaster.

Mothers come running and they find their babies smiling with excitement by the looks of something new and weird, grabbing them to their chests, looking at the bullet stuck in the wall and hoping for their husbands to come back alive.

After days of terror and after the revolution started the dawn of a new age, the mothers were still waiting for their men which were never found again, so many disappeared, but the babies were still there, promising a bright new future.

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