March!

I can hear guns going off in the distance, the pungent smell of gunpowder invades

my nostrils, terrified screams resound in my ears and tears are rushing down my cheeks.

For the first time in my life I am confronted with a harsh realization: today is the day I

might die. The center of town has suddenly become a war zone. I feel trapped, I look for

something familiar but my surroundings consist of tall buildings who taunt me, making

me aware of how insignificant I am right now. I crouch lower behind a car, to avoid

being seen by the police, but they are like beasts, they can smell fear. Soon they’ll start

shooting at us again. My hands will not stop shaking, and blood is seeping through my

jeans. I am hurt. But my wounds are only superficial. Something instinctive from within

drives me into action, directing my every move. Without realizing it I have managed to

stand up, I no longer feel my feet. With my clammy hands I hold a handkerchief up to my

nose, trying not to breathe the tear gas, but it is already too late. I cannot see where I am

going. Tears keep springing from my eyes and I cannot control it. I know I have to move,

I have to get out of here, I have to save myself. This is not my area of town, I am in the

red zone. I run. I jump over bodies, wishing I could stop to help them, but I keep on

going because I hear motorcycles coming towards me. I keep going, not knowing where I

am headed, to escape. I trip over something. My face roughly hits the pavement, and as a

slide forward I know it should hurt. But I no longer feel pain, my body has gone numb. I

look up to examine myself, but RED is the only color I can see. Red like their hats, like

the blood the suck from others, like hell. It is everywhere, in all of their evil contorted

faces, in their shirts, in their hats. It is all over me, on my hands and arms. I hear people

rushing over to me, I wonder if they are red or not. They are coming closer, they are

calling me. I want to tell them to keep moving, to save themselves, but I am unable to

speak. They stop. There are three of them, all men and all I can make out are their yellow

shirts, they are here to help. One of them scoops me up, as the other ties his flag around

my leg to stop the bleeding. The third one begins rubbing toothpaste under my nose and

eyes to counter the gas’ effect. He does so aggressively, invasively. His fingers are now

inside my nose and he keeps on spreading the paste all over. It is now covering my whole

face, but I am not crying anymore. I do not like what I see, and for a second I wish I were

blinded by the tear gas again in order to avoid this horrific sight. The street has become a

sea of bodies, all of them covered by yellow, red and blue, our flag. The men start

running again, this time with me in their arms. We jump over people, flags, and cameras.

Streetlights no longer carry meaning, we stop for nothing. They run, I scream, and

together we join the masses who, like us, came here today to march. We go behind bars,

and hold each other tight as we begin to cry. This time it is not because of the gas. We cry

for those we could not save, we cry for our country, we cry for ourselves. The noise has

died down a little. I look around me and I recognize where I am. We have made it, we are

in safe territory. I take out my cell phone and I call home, I tell my dad that I am safe.