They all ramble about the tensions of the war, but none of them ever mentions the jolt.
We were fine. We were fine, and then war swallowed us.
It enveloped us like quicksand.
We couldn't breathe, we couldn't move, we couldn't scream.
We were not soldiers. We did not fight in the war.
We were the victims of retaliation, the victims of men who told tales of scientific advancements when the thirst for blood raged in their cores.
They hid behind composture and smiles and speeches.
They sang of honor and duty when they turned our bodies to ashes.
Our cities to dust.
Our children to coal.
We were not soldiers.
We did not fight in the war.
What were we? What did we do?
Were we simply the Iphigenia to their Agamemnon (who asked for our blood?)?
We were a necessary sacrifice?
Everyone knows we weren't.
Were we Atlas?
How were we supposed to hold the weight of the sky (we weren't)?
We would be crushed, and they knew it.
Were we Ixion? Did we long for anything we didn't own (our rulers did, not us)?
They still bound us to a flaming wheel, forever ablaze.
Were we heathens? Were we sorcerers? Were we witches?
They threw us in formidable bonfires.
They left us in a raging inferno.
If yes, then listen to my scourge, and listen well.
The dead shall be avenged, and the murderers shall be Tantalus.
The blood, the only thing capable of soothing the burn of their throats, shall be laid in their glasses, but never drunk.
The flesh, the only thing capable of filling their stomachs, shall be laid on their plates, but never eaten.
Life will be sucked out of their bodies, and we shall meet again.
The dead wait.
The dead do not forget.