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all, pointing it at Claudio. Paolo began to protest, tugging his arm back, but
the superior- pressed Paolo’s finger down over the trigger- and Claudio was
gone.
The superior threw the gun down and hit Paolo across the face, knocking
him down.
“Next time you hesitate you will end up like him.”
There would be no next time. Paolo thought of all the times he and Claudio
fantasized of running, of making a wrong turn and heading to the village
away from this hell. Claudio was gone now. Paolo knew he couldn’t last
much longer, mindlessly killing. Maybe now was his time to run…
Paolo remembered the day well. The air was crisp. It left a sharp aftertaste
that made him think of the mint leaves his mother would let him chew as
a treat when he was a boy. The day smelled of bitter cold, and the ground
was covered by a thin layer of powder. Foliage jutted out of the fine snow,
a mess of dry leaves and snapped twigs. His shift was about to end. He had
stood post outside the ground’s limited arsenal overnight, back pressed
against the planks of wood for support. His spine was stiff, having found
no comfort in the rough planks in the last seven hours. Paolo reached for
his flask, pulling out the metallic canteen from his olive green canvas sack.
He pressed the cold tin to his chapped lips, tilting back his head. Nothing.
There was a crunch and a snap to his left, and he snapped to his feet, hand
reaching for his weapon. He saw the familiar face of the soldier who relived
him of his post every day; the same scruff bordering angular cheekbones,
each day seemingly thinner, as if eaten away by weariness.
Wordlessly, he stood up, nodding to his friend. He turned his neck from
side to side, waking up the muscles he had neglected for the night. His
legs tingled with the feeling he likened to radio static. The ground snapped
occasionally under his step, each one leading him towards the barracks.
The path he followed took him through a stretch of wooded area, long
stretches of brown stretching into a nearly transparent sky, wispy fingers
reaching for sunlight. The area around him became more and more dense,
trunk after trunk impeding his way. He’d taken the wrong turn. He looked
back up at the trees, more of them now grasping for the sun.
Carlotta Verita
He started to run, matching his breathing to the steady crunch of the earth
below him. He reached a clearing, suddenly blinded by the whiteness of
the powdered ground that replaced the maze of brown. Smoke rose up,
tendrils of gray in stark contrast with the dream like blue of the sky which
was so light it, looked as if it would float away. He followed the smoke as if it
were a beacon, theNorthStar inhis sea. Soonhe could taste it, a thick burnt
sensation coating his tongue, leaving the same acrid aftertaste of lemons,
but more familiar - the smoke of a heated home. He knew someone would
hide him, that someone would shield him. Paolo was no longer willing to
sacrifice his soul. Paolo was no longer a soldier.
Carlotta Verita
Torre del Lago
Cecilia Lopez-Jordan (FilmPhotograph)