It isn't easy to stomach death. And it never will be.
Night after night, he woke up in cold sweat, haunted by images of death. His mother lying on the floor, blood streaming down her face, and eyes reflecting determination and courage. She had fought off her attackers bravely, till a single blow to her head took her life.
He found his sister on her bed, caught by surprise by her attackers. She always slept with a dagger beneath her pillow, and this he found, unused. She didn't die immediately though. She managed to scribble the word 'run' on the wall with blood-soaked hands.
Tears flowed from his eyes as he imagined how much she suffered. Two thrusts into her abdomen, and an arrow shot into her chest. He didn't know how she had managed to lived on. He had always hoped she left a clue or two about the attackers. He had searched the house quickly, looking for some clue. Perhaps the attackers were after a family heirloom or an object of their desire, or they wanted to send a message to the community. After all, his family was one of the more influential ones in the village. But, there was no visible clue nor message to be found.
And so, the next day, before the sun rose, he followed his sister's command, as he had done for the past thirteen years, and ran.
For three days and two nights he ran, stopping every now and then to refresh himself from the streams, till he could run no more, and he knelt down on the damp soil of the thick forest and wept.
Potholes
