Papa Christophe

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Fear rises in crescendo in me. Papa Christophe is now gone. No shrieks, no struggle, no clamor. Just death. I climb clumsily to the nearby woods but my mind is losing its way to conscious.

“Marie?”

My legs are tangled with anxious. Residents around me are dead still under the cover of the fractured moonlight. Layers of darkness flood my mind along with waves of dread. I’m terrified. More than terrified. My heart flops like a dead fish running dry of hope.

Here comes agony and nausea. My own fear starts to tear my flesh and my mind is wrecked with despair. Callous machetes and guns are everywhere, all wet with my tribe’s blood. The sickening smell stings me and agitates my bodily functions. Every detail of this death scene is now etched into my brain.

“Marie? Marie wake up.”

Thousands and thousands of abandoned bodies lie across the fields in a ruby pool of blood; their faces are brimmed with hatred as if they regard this flagitious world with disgust even when they meet their ends. The air I’m breathing in is becoming more and more stale; every breath I take is acc...

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