STORY OF A WOUND

You once had a country. You once had a body. Once there was a warrior girl. She does this at night, when she can't sleep: she closes her eyes and ritually runs her fingertips over the geography of her face. Years of childhood and family recede and sink, replaced by valleys and mountains of scar tissue and aging. Under the right eye, where the cheekbone begins, the war years. His adolescence incinerated. At the root of the nose, the burnt skin wrinkles, almost in a spiral, and with the imagination, one feels how, in all of us, love and fury are close. We try to pretend that they are the opposite of each other, or two opposite poles, but in reality they meet in the center of the forehead. They form a bridge, a bond. She hears the narration of faith at the bridge of the nose. It would be very easy for her to finger drill her skull into the gray matter.
Near the jaw, against the edge of my mouth, I feel the people I once loved: the mother. The bear. The dog. And then what I have come to love in fatigue and endurance. Comrades and companions in arms. "Love" is a word that always has explosive definitions gathered in the corners of the mouth, a mouth that now resembles a jagged gash, hostile to any expression, open only to cry and prayer.
In the skin I bear the mark of the original wound. I live in the killer's body; I live in the body of someone who could give life. What is the meaning of giving life? That's the kind of question I'm asking myself now. A meaningless question.
Whatever life forms are left on earth, whoever writhes through their miserable existence as worms, this is a drama in which I have no part.
This is not a simple face deposit. This is also a prisoner depot. They have been conducting this bizarre dance for years: they choose the face. They charge. They wait.

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