A Reporter's Life in War

Tap, tap, tap…

Tap, tap….tap…

...Tap……Tap………….Tap…

Sounds of letters hitting the paper slowly came to an end. It was hesitant but it was evitable, because he was unable to continue.

A man with some gray streaks in the midst of his raven hair sighed and slunk back sullenly to the chair. The rusty old leather chair that gives out a weird smell he suspected to be the soup that stained it long ago. He looked up to the ceiling, staring at the blue paint that’s starting to peel off little by little, showing the white surface of the ceiling. The room was old, just like him, and no effort was made to fix it. The room was an abandoned one, lonely without any company—just like him.

He didn’t bother looking out of the window, even if there’s bright sun out there, he couldn’t bear to see the chaotic war happening out there. The town is getting violated every day; people kill, people die, people starve to death, people steal food through violence, children are bought and abused for fun, no more so called virgins left. It was partly his fault.

The man could hear the sound of water flowing through the pipes, loud and clear, indicating just how quiet it was. How he wished he could hear the sounds of laughter or even the sounds of children crying – like how it used to be. The raven closed his eyes, as memories flashed by, reminding him about his kind wife and cute son. If only he could still hold them in his embrace, while basking in the sunlight without worrying if there’s bullets flying around or stepping on landmines. It’s been years since he could have a taste of peace. He had never truly learns the importance of peace when there’s no war. His eyes went a little watery but he pays no mean to it and blinked them away.

He glanced back at the table in front of him with nothing but an old typewriter. He was a reporter; it was his dream and he loved his job as if it was his life. But now, this dream turned into a nightmare and his life turned into nothing but despair. His beloved wife and son were taken away from him, oh how he hated himself for how weak he was. She was violated in front of him, again and again, and he wasn’t allowed to look away or his son would be killed. That few hours felt like years to him. Frostbitten by despair, he agreed to whatever they wanted – writing and reporting the total opposite of what they were doing.

He started doing all that, telling the people they were innocents, they were not the communists who kill and threatened, they were kind donators. The people believe him and trusted them as they get killed and taken advantage of. The raven was devastated. He used to report all kind of hidden truth of his enemies, helping all the towns’ people, being a heroic savior to all. But now, he’s helping his enemies. The more he writes, the more he destroys. Despair started to wrap itself around him like a serpent.

Oh, but what could he had done? His family was his priority. He couldn’t stop all these. Even in this dark and lonely abyss he resides in, a faint ray of light; of hope, could still pierce in. He still had his family’s smiles to hold onto.

He will write, he will fight on, he will kill his conscience off and shut out everything else.

Just for his family.

************************************

But when he received the lukewarm bodies of his wife and son, both decorated with crimson red blood, with their bodies full of wounds and scars, his world crumbled. He lost his purpose of living, he had nothing to look forward to, and he didn’t know why and for whom he was living for.

He could only utter the word over and over, again and again.

…Why?

He drank and drank. He cried and cried.

But he didn’t bother to take revenge, he was a rational man, he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. They are dead, and so is he. But he has one last thing to do, before reuniting with them once again.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Without any hesitation at all, he finished typing everything he intended to. Ah, it was such an ecstatic feeling to be able to express all his thoughts and feelings without anything limiting him. He didn’t even need to feel the disappointment or depressed from writing fake information.

He felt alive again, finally being the reporter he is.

He laughed lightheartedly before taking the brown bottle on the other table and opening it. He drank it in one go and smiled.

“I’m coming, Anna, Ken.”

He fell along with the rusty chair, creating the loudest and last sound in this room before total silence fill the room for eternity.