Do you know how to play dead?
Imagine this.
You’re lying on the ground with your father lying beside you.
He’s telling you, “don’t move, don’t move. Whatever happens, don’t move.”
You think it’s your heart beating hard against the ground. Then you think it’s your father’s. Both times, you’re wrong.
All the irregular beats are coming from the other men, but it’s not their hearts.
It’s their guns. It’s the thuds of people hitting the ground all around you.
“Don’t move.”
He used to tell you to run when a stranger tried to give you sweets. Now, people are shooting, but he’s telling you not to run.
“Don’t move.”
His voice is weaker now. It looks like he’s looking at you, but he’s not.
They say the last thing you see is your place in the Afterlife. You look at your daddy’s face, and you always believed he’d go to Heaven because he was kind. But his eyes scare you. Your daddy looks scared but he’s gone limp. You want to run.
Don’t move.
You try to think of something else.
You’re in school, it’s break time. You and your friends are playing change your style.
Change your style, you strike a pose.
Another style, another pose.
Be like that. You freeze.
Be like that.
Be like that.
Something is crawling on your cheek pressed against the ground. You know it’s your daddy’s blood. The smell. But all you can think about is be like that.
So you freeze, till the shooting stops. Till you hear someone say they’ve gone. People start running. You don’t know why, but you join them too.
It’s hours later, when your feet are sore, that you remember that the last you saw of your daddy was his eyes filled with terror.
Fuad Lawalis a poet and copy writer. He blogs at rebelliousflash300.wordpress.com and runs stock photography website snapaya.com . You can follow him on Instagram/Twitter @fuadxiv