Aortic laceration.

Inevitable Asphyxiation.

From warmth to frozen,

Now hanging above

Out pours the life of man:

By the sickle, By the machete

By the katana, By the dagger

Each the end of man.

The king holds the head,

The followers watch,

The blood of the family,

Assumed to be dead. Later

By the night, the archangel descends

Restoring the blood far from the land.

- The blood in the “bled”

I was born here, I was raised here, and I nearly saw my death here. It is as simple as this. Honestly, my life has been quite intensive for the past years, or more precisely as soon as the civil war started in the country.

My name is Hamza, a 25 year old Syrian man living in Aleppo who’s life dramatically changed from white to red when the war replaced the peaceful time in my lovely country. Being a child and a teenager, I used to wake up to the sound of the birds ringing in my ears and the sunshine lighting my beautiful city, I would literally stand at the window every morning and stare at all those human beings walking in the streets, those who used to wake up early, and sometimes even before the sunrise, to go buy fresh fruits and vegetables from the souq. Just staring at everything moving around and feeling that everyone just having a normal life was enough to have my heart beating of happiness. My mom would then call me for breakfast, I would sit on the table in the living room with my whole family and we would eat, all happy and grateful for what we have.

Now that I am writing this, I feel that out of all the wells, the only thing I ask for at this moment is to be able to admire this view again at least once.

One day, on a typical morning, I was at the window, listening to music and smelling the nice scent of flowers, and suddenly I heard “BOOM”, and lost my memory after that, it was the beginning of the civil war or the so-called “arab spring” in Syria. This is when I saw my life just flipped over from lightness to darkness, from happinesses to sadness, and from laughing to crying.

I opened my eyes in a car? An ambulance? I couldn’t figure out where I was at that moment, the only thing I could remember was the guys surrounding me, one telling the driver to go faster and the second one trying to help me stay alive by rolling bandages in the many severe injuries I had in my hands, my face, and my legs. The only thing I could hear were explosions sounds all over the place, my heart then skipped a beat. As soon as we arrived at the hospital, I stared at everything and everyone around me. It was a whole different view. People were covered with blood, some had a hand or a leg missing, others had breathing difficulties and were vomiting. I was put on a bed and an oxygen tube was attached to my mouth as I couldn’t breathe well and was losing a lot of blood going out from my severe injuries, likely I did not have internal bleeding.

I started to comprehend the terrible scene around me. I couldn’t realize what was happening around me, I wasn’t familiar with all of this, this is not where I live, not at all! After a moment of silence, I asked myself: Where is my family and how did I end up here, why is everything red around me, even the nurses’ blouses, where are those pure and happy bodies that I used to see everyday, and why is everything so different? I stood up, removed all the weird machines attached to me and, as I felt I could walk, I ran even though my body was covered with blood and feeling severe pain everywhere. I was literally going from people to people in the corridor asking them what’s wrong, what happened, but no one would answer me, everyone was terrified, crying and traumatized.

I thanked god that the nurses didn’t see me run away, I exited the hospital and went down the stairs and as soon as I reached the last step I stood there for five minutes with a big mouth opened, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I felt like my heart was going to stop beating, my whole body was shaking, I couldn’t stand on my feets. Where is my city, why is everything dark, did anyone paint all the white walls in grey or am I just dreaming? Why is half of the buildings on the floor?

At this moment particularly I understood the reason behind the sounds I was hearing on my way to here. I realized then that my house wasn’t the only place bombarded, but instead the whole city was destroyed. It’s a complete disaster!

It is clear now that the war has just started, hearing air-strikes and bombs everyday and everywhere, seeing dead bodies scattered with blood on the floor whenever you go out, it was so dramatic and terrifying.

The question I am asking myself at this moment is when is all of this going to end, I need my white, pure, and safe life back again.

“Violence is not the answer” they would say so very blankly

As if this country hasn’t been built by violence well quite frankly

I don’t believe you.

Because I have seen things that no human should ever see.

I have seen a man pleading for his life on the streets.

DO YOU HEAR ME?

Pleading for his life, on the streets.

Blood streaming down his body immersing from the bullet that soonly killed him.

Blood, the same colour of a wine that the murder will soon be drinking to celebrate.

To celebrate the murder of a black man.

A black man whos only fault was being black.

Who are you to speak about violence?

We learnt violence from you.

We learnt violence from the way you arrested over 2000 protesters

When all we asked for was four.

So we will continue protesting and looting because buildings can be repaired

Black souls of our sisters and brothers cannot.

i

They say to trust that

Blood is thicker than water.

Is it always right?

ii

Blood will show and tell,

But is it too much for hearts

To bear the bleedin

Blood never lies

But maybe it's just a lie,

As the person with the highest trust,

Speaks the piercing lie.

Migration and blood are intangible,

Yet have a connection.

Your motherland, your blood, your migration,

Maybe it was destiny.

If one can separate you,

The other connects you.

If migration breaks you from your mother,

Then blood will bring it back.

My home, the land of customs and culture

Is my mother, is my home, is my identity.

Oldest of histories speak the brutal truth,

Of the bloodshed and love for my mother.

It was a golden bird,

A place where you can eat sweet and spice

Feel high and low

And be with your blood.

When migration plays in,

Everyone leaves, I leave.

To new geography, to a new environment, to a new place,

Doha, the land of new cultures.

Is my culture lost?

I reflect on my blood.

Is my identity lost?

I am proud to have Indian blood.

Mixtures of nationalities, cultures, and religion,

A perfect place to tell people,

Of my culture, nationality, and religion

The uniqueness lies in every individual.

Blood and migrancy are connected,

No matter what part of the world I am in,

How far I have migrated,

There is always a hint of my country that plays in my identity.

The ferris wheel rotates, though it doesn’t seem like it. I only know this because everytime I look back, the ginger-haired girl in the cabin numbered ‘4’ is in a different place. Left, right, down, or at the highest point, where she laughs as she looks down and waves to the children below. Every single time. She’s been on it for almost an hour now, but I’m not complaining. The girl in cabin 4 is the only way I can keep track of the time.

Kids’ sticky-pink cotton candy hands touch everything, while joyous screams fill the sky. I don’t understand the amusement of roller coasters. Maybe it’s been too long since I was a kid.

Kasey hands me a bag of popcorn. “Act natural, for once please,” she says, throwing a kernel in her mouth. She cringes and spits it out. “Even worse than I thought.”

“So how are we gonna do this again?” I ask. Seven of us stand in a circle: a normal group of friends chatting, to an outsider.

“Haven’t you been to a funfair before, Nessie?” Eric grins widely at me. “We’re here to have fun. Don’t overthink it,” The rest of them laugh.

“Yeah, ok,” I turn to see ginger girl’s flushed cheeks brighter than before, her hair flying in the wind. She’s almost at the top, so I’d say it’s about 8:20 pm. “Let’s make this quick.” I order. “Lucy, you go to the bouncy castle. Eric, Keira, the twister ride. Mason, snack counters--”

“Wait, no. I want twister,” Tim interrupts.

“No, you stay with Kasey, finish whatever’s left,” I’ve been waiting too long for this, Tim can’t mess around now.

“Where will you go?” Mason’s paper-white and smooth face is creased now. Why is he worried about me?

“Ferris wheel,” I inhale, not to breathe, but to fill my lungs with a sweet metallic flavour. Cabin 4 is mine. I look around, the atmosphere is calm, yet filled with adrenaline. As I am about to order the group to go, a shrill whine catches my attention.

“Mommy, I don’t wanna get off!” Ginger girl calls down.

Her mother is stood on the patchy grass, not far from us. She watches her daughter with frustrated but loving eyes. “Lauren, if you don’t get off this time, you won’t get any popcorn!”

Lauren. A little girl who has to be bribed just to get off a ride. Her yellow dress, which she wears with such pride, is bright and matches her shoes. I wonder what she would’ve grown up to be. What her favourite animal is. Why she loves the ferris wheel more than any other ride. Why she has to be so appetizing to me.

But the timing is perfect. And my instincts take control.

I turn to the group, guilt, and thirst wash through me. I had never thought twice about my dinner before Lauren.

“Go” I whisper.

Everything happens in fast motion from there. Our group fans out through the fair like peacock’s feathers. Poor Lauren screeches as I sink my fangs into her. In seconds, Lauren’s lovely little dress, along with everyone else at the fair, is stained red.

Franco dropped in. He had no time to lose; the robbery had to work like clockwork so as not to spill his own blood.

He was a member of the Giordano family, the infamous ‘mafia’ group based in Venice. Crime was in his blood and he knew it. This was his first mission and he was not going to fail it. Franco’s mission was to steal a vial of blood worth a fortune that belonged to their rivals, the Giovannis. On top of money, he would be bringing back pride to his family.

He jumped down and accustomed himself to the dark room. The door was slightly open and so he slithered out quietly. He hid behind a table as a maid rolled her trolley down the hallway. How easy it would be to draw blood from someone as defenceless… but alas, he was not that heartless and that was not part of his mission.

He sneaked down the stairways to see his prize on top of the fireplace downstairs. He smiled and dashed for it. With it safely in his possession, he took a good look at what he was holding. It was a vial of blood derived from the first pope, kept from decomposing by some forgotten method of preservation.

Suddenly an intense pain erupted in his ankle and he collapsed on the floor, the vial still clutched in his hand. Behind him was Enzo, the father and mastermind of the Giovanni family. He put the small pistol he was holding up to Franco’s head.

“I’m going to enjoy this very much. Your father has meddled in my business for far too long” Enzo whispered. Rage was evident in his voice. It was over, thought Franco - but then he saw it; the huge lamp on a nearby desk. Summoning all his strength, Franco kicked out. His foot made contact with the table’s leg and the lamp came toppling down onto his assailant.

A trickle of blood appeared on Enzo’s forehead as he toppled over.

Franco got up, dusting himself off. He limped slightly due to the bleeding gun wound on his ankle, but he managed to get up the stairs before the pain got too bad. His father, Marco, was waiting for him in the room Franco had dropped into earlier. They climbed up onto the roof of the house.

“That was a very good first mission, Franco, well done. Now, let’s head home and clean that wound up. Then we can raise a toast to the newest member of the group” smiled Marco.

They climbed down onto their waiting gondola and paddled through the pristine Venetian canals, off into the blood-red sunset.

"Now, now," he spoke, "don't get all worked up. It's just a little blood."

I look up from the bodies of our friends and scowl. "A little blood?! This much could fill an entire pool!" I grit my teeth and ball up my fists. I would punch him if not for the fact that he had a gun in each hand. And his blank face and empty eyes tel lme he isn't afraid to use it.

"You hated them all anyways, didn't you?" he spoke quietly but sternly. I widen my eyes and look down but immediately look up again, not being able to handle seeing all the red. My eyes fill with tears, knowing he is right. "So, are you with me or not?"

A sigh leaves my lips and I nod.

He hands me the gun and points one at me, just in case.

I chuckle to myself, thinking of their faces when I barge into the building, holding a gun. They'll finally be afraid of me. They'll finally respect me.

"A little more blood won't matter anyways," I mumble to myself, smiling, and put on the mask he gives me.

"Let's go. To my house first."

Self-driving cars, rovers on Mars, VR Headsets,

5G networks and countless technologies.

AI assistants, information in an instant,

Oh how far humans have come!

You would think such species, so developed

so refined, would have conquered blood shed and suffering.

Yet just yesterday, yes in the year of two-thousand and twenty,

I heard of a man murdered in cold blood.

Oh how far humans have come!

The murderer, a man of justice and equality, looked straight

into the eyes of its onlookers. It feared no retaliation,

no punishment, no consequence; For it was a man of justice.

It could do no wrong.

Oh how far humans have come, that a man, no a monster

Can roam the streets of our civilizations serving such “justice”.

The severity of its crimes concealed by the “judges” and “prosecutors”

that vow to serve the same “justice”. Oh how far you have come!

So developed and advanced are your 300 year old systems of “justice”,

Created by the oh so “just” and “fair” men of honorable untarnished legacies,

There is something beautiful about death.

The way a soul is stripped away from a body. A body full of energy and life...and lots of blood. When the strong, beating heart - it would be racing in this situation - stops and dies down like an old engine. When those big black eyes roll back and blank out, or sometimes stare at you - rather past you - in a way that sends chills throughout your entire body. But by now, you know that it happens because the blood flow to the brain has stopped and resulted in severe blood deprivation, so you’re unfazed.

The first time is the hardest, but it gets better. You try to block out all the bareness and redness - that deep, deep red - and think of something else, that job you could have had if you did not drop out of college, for example. But in a situation like the one you are in right now, you can’t really help it. The squishy sound and the horrible metallic smell seem to have intensified over time. The blood feels very sticky and it’s getting on your nerves.

It’s 9 pm. Your family will start wondering where you are. They’ll call soon - they always do - and ask you the same questions they do every time:

“Daddy, where are you? You're gonna miss your favourite show again.”

“ I’m at work, sweetheart. But I'm almost done, don't you worry. And don't you dare finish all the Nachos!”

A giggle. Oh, how you love her laugh. “ Okay, daddy. Love you!”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” But your heart constricts - is it guilt ? or is it fear?

Your daughters don’t know about your job (yet). How can you tell them? The truth will traumatise them, maybe even make them hate you. At such a young age, they will not understand that you do this for them. They will not understand that what they see is different to what you see. Nor will they understand that it is okay if it is for a good cause - intentions matter after all. That’s why - for now - they know you as ‘the surgeon’. Surely, they can understand that. What’s better than having a dad who cuts living beings open to save them rather than take their lives away? However, they are growing up and they are not stupid. They will figure it out eventually. But, all in good time.

You need to finish soon. God! It’s such a mess. It got everywhere this time. Huge prey.

“Thanks a lot, Dimitri,” you sigh, “This is the third shirt I’ve ruined this week.” And everyone left already. Even your assistant left early tonight. He will have to clean it up in the morning.

Normally, You're very organized. You never even waste any bit or piece, everything is useful somehow. You never know what sorts of things people need. You always organize everything into different categories and put every precious glistening organ in a plastic bag - biodegradable of course - and label them with their weight and name. The more they weigh, the better. You always start by making a small incision in the neck to drain the blood, of course, then you complete the cut at the same angle until the head comes off. When you are done, you put it aside for your assistant. You cannot crack a skull properly even if your life depended on it. You inevitably end up squishing the brain and the eyes and that only costs you money. Plus, it’s his speciality. He carves it open like a pumpkin, it's amazing really. The eyes do not even get the slightest bit of damage, so you save those too - but people rarely want those. Everything else non-head wise is your work. You even save the skin sometimes, but that is only when you get a special order.

But two years ago, it had gotten harder to find prey in your area. Dimitri had to speak to one of his friends in the rural areas. Now, he gets the job done and sends them here. Saves you lots of time, really. Most come dead, but only a rare few, those special ones that have more resilience than the others, come with what little life they have left and have the honour of being finished off by you. It's okay, really. It’s your job and you are doing it for your kids. You are not doing anything wrong nor do you do anything worse than that. Dimitri takes care of the contacts and customers, and you have your assistants deliver whatever they want - It is mostly the heart they like nowadays, for whatever reason. Previously, people used to come here to pick up their orders. But with technology, no one wants to go through that trouble anymore. Moreover, the smell is horrible.

You take two healthy kidneys - the last from the bloody body - and weigh them separately. 104.2 and 105.3 grams. Wow, pretty healthy for a 2-year-old. You put them in a separate bag. Those will bring good money. You take off your apron and return to your working table. You pick up your knives, scissors, scalpels and your 25-inch bone saw, wipe them off with a sterilizing agent. When you are done and as you are walking away, you see the slimy bloody remains on your working table. No, your assistant will clean up tomorrow. You have to get home to your kids.

You rinse your hands, blood and water mixing, swirling down the drain. Yet can your hands ever be clean? You dry them the best you can and brush these thoughts aside. As you leave you switch off the lights and flip the sign. ‘Denham’s Butchers - Closed’. The street outside is cold, dark and wet; rainfalls against the shopfront window and down over the faded letters beneath. ‘Meat is murder!’ But your steps will carry you home.

Good character is not

behaving well when it’s easy.

But how you behave

when it is against you,

When the chips are down and it’s dark,

when there is blood in you mouth

a sting on your cheek-

that’s when it hurts.

That’s when it’s character-

good or bad.