Now - short story

This is a short story I was inspired to write, when my favorite band through five years, Paramore, released their first music video in a year - the video is linked on this story. I saw this video and I suddenly saw a story. That I just had to write. I hope you enjoy my - very poetic - way of considering this video and song. I apologize for every mistake, my first language is not english - please correct me if you find any mistakes.


If there's a future, we want it now!

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1. Now

 

 

 

Lost the battle, but win the war.

 

 

Her eyes are blue. Not like the ocean with the powerful waves and the ships. Not like the sky, filled with thunderclouds and airplanes. Blue like the flowers. Her eyes are blue like the flowers in the fields, which she now walks; the fields which have become infinitive, she’s been wandering forever, but the fields go on.

Her skin is white. Not just pale, but white, crystal white. Under her surface her veins are showing, her blood being remarkable… blue. Her body is fragile, so fragile that a wind blow will break her bones. Her body is surrounded by a white dress. It is filled with holes and dirt has turned the fabric dark. But the white linen beneath the darkness is clear; the dress is white. Her hair is red, but not like flames burning down houses. Her hair is red like the sunrise. When the first sunbeam touches the sky above the ocean and the sky goes into flames. But these flames are not like the destructive, burning fire. They are warm, not burning hot.

Her feet are bare and cut from the stones on the gray ground she’s been wandering forever. The air is filled with smoke from the guns and grenades flying around her, all the time getting closer to hit her. And destroy her fragileness. On the field men are fighting. Fighting with no purpose. Men in holed, dirty clothes, men with only sticks and stones to fight with, to defend themselves and attack the others. Men running around her, making sure the grenades don’t hit her. Men like her. Men with colorful eyes, with bruised faces, with only hopelessness in their hands.

The other men are different. They wear masks with no face beneath, they wear similar uniforms, and they are organized. They are soldiers, fighting with batons, hitting the men with faces, throwing grenades and bombs, destroying. She regard them as she walks, stones cutting into her feet, making every step painful. But she keeps walking, breathing in the smoke. Breathing out the smoke. Hear the crashes from the bombs, the grenades, the falling bodies. It drains her, but she keeps walking. She wanders through the war as a ghost. As the only thing the soldiers seems to have forgotten, and everything the men with the colored eyes fights to keep. She wanders through the war in her white dress, with her flaming hair and her blue eyes. She wanders in a warzone and she’s hit.

 

We’re starting over, but head back in.

 

The grenade striking her, probably breaks her eardrum, makes her fall and turns her dress redder than white. But she doesn’t break. Her bones stay intact and her eyes are still blue. She’s alive. A boy with green eyes kneels by her body, bends over her, screaming at her, but all she hears is his mouth moving. The dirt blows from the ground, throwing itself all over the place. As the seconds pass, her hearing returns, damaged, but there. Hurting by every sound. The scream, the bombs, the crashes. The green-eyed boys’ desperate cry for her to get up. To keep walking. To stay on this fields, this path of death. Why, she wants to ask, why do I have to stay? But she can’t. His eyes looks so filled with pain as he ducks to avoid getting hit by a grenade. Come on, please get up, he begs holding her around the waist, helping her on her feet. But they hurt; they are so bruised, so injured. Every step is like setting fire to her entire body. But she takes a step. And another. The boy keeps supporting her, but suddenly a soldier runs towards her. Towards her. She gasps, as she realizes that she is no more without value to the fighters, no more an unimportant stranger walking through the fields. The green-eyed boy jumps into the soldiers’ body, keeping him away from her. She takes another step as a stick almost strikes her and another man with colorful eyes throws himself towards a soldier, trying to get to her. She keeps walking. She keeps setting fire to herself. For the sake of the green-eyed boy, for the sake of the fighters, for the sake of the dead. She walks as fast as possible, but it doesn’t seem fast enough. For the first time in an eternity the war seems to go somewhere. It seems to change. The colorful men gets thrown to the ground, hold down by the soldiers’ batons. All she can do is walk; keep moving forward while her companions fall to the ground screaming for her to keep going, to reach the end. But where is the end? Is there an end to this? This war, this… she closes her eyes for a moment. Riot, she whispers to herself with the voice she doesn't got, war. Death.  

There must be a future. There must be a future for these colorful men, for the soldiers, for her. She wants the future – now. Now. She’s tired of hurting, tired of wandering. Tired of death. A soldier grabs her, trying to throw her to the ground, but a brown-eyed boy pushes him away and stares into her eyes for a moment. Then a soldier jumps at him, hits him with his baton. She keeps walking.

Through the smoke she sees something unfamiliar. A man in a uniform. But he wears a face instead of a mask. The leader. The killer. The end.

 

If there’s a future, we want it now.

 

He is protected by masked soldiers, who are throwing their grenades, yelling, hitting. Hurting. She walks. The green-eyed boy appears at her side, clearing the way for her, but gets thrown to the ground again and hit. Riot. As she takes a look around, she realizes how the brown-eyed boy is trapped towards the ground, getting hold down. She realizes that this is no war in death. This is a war of moral, of the way we live. She realizes how the battle is almost lost and with it, the war. Even though every step is like cutting her hurt feet open, she doesn’t show. She just walks. There’s a time and a place to die. To lose, to give in. This ain’t it. As she reaches the leader, the end, two soldiers grab her, holding her away. And suddenly the quiet one gets a voice. She’s screaming, she’s crying with no tears, she fight the fight of her life to break lose. Her scream is like nothing ever heard before. It tears every molecule apart, it breaks every vein, it makes hearts stop. And as she fights her fragileness disappears, it turns into strength in a war were everyone has forgotten all that matters. Faith, love, forgiveness. As she breaks lose, she runs towards the leader on her bleeding feet, towards his colorless eyes and his raised baton, ready to hit her. And as she reaches him, she throws her arm around his body, cling to him and hear the sound of his beating heart. She embraces him, she embraces the ending. Everything stands still, everyone stays silent, staring at the bizarre scene on the fields of the fight. The bump of the baton falling to the ground is breaking, but turns the time back on. The relieved sighs of the colorful men, the victory screams from the fighters. The sound of the end. The leader puts his arms around her, holding her close. She closes her eyes, breath slowly. Breath the smoke in, breath the smoke out. It seems like they finally remember. They finally remember who the blue-eyed girl is.

 

 

There’s a time and a place to die, but this ain’t it.

 

 

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